


Dragons of Red, Dragons of White

by Nightdrake



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incest, Intrigue, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Sexual Violence, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 102,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15528021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdrake/pseuds/Nightdrake
Summary: An AU where the Battle of the Trident took place, but just between Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. Their duel and its outcome have ramifications that none could foresee. In the world built afterwards, dragons once again rule and roam Westeros, among them the son of a northern beauty and the king. Prince Jon and his kin, Stark and Targaryen alike, face new challenges from both without and within. Whatever the future holds, the Seven Kingdoms will learn that, whether in a coat of red or a coat of white, a dragon still has claws.





	1. Death of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Our Choices Seal Our Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854958) by [DolorousEdditor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolorousEdditor/pseuds/DolorousEdditor). 



> This is my first stab at a fanfic, so please be patient- mistakes are practically guaranteed.  
> Also, special shoutout to DolorousEdditor. This story is inspired by your fic.  
> However, be warned- this is not the same story. Not by a long shot.  
> Here, we begin our tale in a Westeros where the fate of the dragons took a very different turn. At the end of a king's reign, destruction and chaos come to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, where the future of a dynasty hangs in the balance.

** Rhaenys**

  
“Your grandfather is angry again, sweetling. I’m afraid we shouldn’t bother him now.”

  
Rhaenys glanced up at her nursemaid. Jeyne had never been fun to be around, but in recent days she had grown even less so. The skin near her eyes had grown darker, and her hair was more frayed than normal. For someone who prided themselves on her appearance, Jeyne looked a mess.

  
_She’s not alone in that. Everyone has been that way, since word of the stag and Father came from the Trident._

  
Everyone was acting different, since word came to Ser Willem Darry from his kin in the riverlands. People wept, men and women alike, or else walked about in a grim silence. All the while, the king raged at all around him, or else whispered with the pyromancer serving as Hand.

  
Rhaenys scowled. “I want someone to see to Balerion. You said you’d take care of him, but you didn’t! No one will do anything. Not you, not Ser Jaime, not even Mother! Maybe Grandfather-”

  
“Don’t count on it, child,” A silky voice called from down the hall. “His Grace is hard at work, fighting to keep the realm together. Leave him to his work.”

  
A bald man dressed in silk was walking towards them from the direction of the small council chambers. Jeyne tensed beside Rhaenys and stepped in front of the princess, putting herself between the Spider and the little dragon.

  
_Why, though? Lord Varys is nothing but kind, and always has sweets for me._ Rhaenys knew that people feared the master of whisperers, but she had never done so. After all, his duty was to sow dissent among and hunt down traitors, and she wasn’t a traitor. Neither were Jeyne or Mother, but they were always warning her about the people at court, especially Varys and the pyromancer Rossart.

  
Jeyne was addressing Lord Varys now. “My lord, the princess should be abed at this hour. Perhaps you could find someone to escort us back to her chambers.”

  
“Oh, I think I’m suited for such a task as that.” Varys giggled. “In times like these, one must find things to do, or else they may go mad. What do you do to stay the madness, princess?”

  
Rhaenys thought about it. She had never felt mad, except when Aegon cried too loudly in her mother’s chambers. What did she do when he was wailing? “I see to Balerion, and remember that I’m a princess, and being mad is not a thing for a princess to be.”

  
Varys smiled down at her. “Indeed not, child. Come, let us head back to your chambers. I may even have a sweet for you, and a mouse to help little Balerion feel better.”

  
Rhaenys beamed up at him and took the hand he had stretched around Jeyne to her. They began walking down the hall, Jeyne making a face as she followed them out and away from Maegor’s Holdfast.

  
“Varys, what made the king so mad today?” Rhaenys asked as they walked. “And yesterday? And the day before that? Is it what Father did? Was it the stag-?

  
She trailed off as she saw his face then. It wasn’t the impassive or sly face he usually held in court. No, for once Lord Varys actually looked _sad_. That looked remained for but a moment, and it vanished when he shook his head, as if it had never been. But it had, Rhaenys knew it had.

  
“I think the prince’s actions may have upset the king, I won’t lie child,” Varys said with a small smile. “But now, I think, his anger is for the lords who he thinks led the prince astray. The northern wolves and the stags and falcons. It is a great crime to trick a prince, and an even greater one to anger the king.”

  
The Holdfast was behind them now, and they were entering the tower where the prince’s family made their home. This tower was one of the closest to the sea, and Rhaenys loved it when the breeze came from across the waters. It chased the bad smells from the city away, and the bad sounds from the courtyard too.

  
Rhaenys scowled again, this time at the Spider. “No one can trick Father! Everyone says he is the wisest prince that ever was,” She loudly declared, “and the bravest too!”

  
“Of course he is, princess,” Jeyne cooed. “Why, I think your Father is playing a clever trick on the rebels, leading them into a trap that your grandfather King Aerys has created.”

  
Varys glanced at the nursemaid with a thoughtful look on his face. “You are more right than you know, dear lady. The king does have a surprise in store for the rebels. More than one, if I may be so bold to say.”

  
Rhaenys stared at Varys. _Surprises? More than one?_ “What’s the surprise? Is it Uncle Oberyn? He always liked surprises, like when I put some eggs under the cushion he was sitting on when he visited Mother-

  
“No, child. But I assure you, the surprise will be all the more satisfying if it stays just that- a surprise.” Varys turned to look ahead. “I believe we have reached our quest’s end.”

  
By now, they had arrived at her chambers. Mothers were next door, but Rhaenys was five, and she couldn’t stand sleeping in the room next to the nursery. _Aegon’s sweet in the day, but when the sun goes down, he turns into a monster._

  
“I’m afraid this is where I leave you, little dragon,” Varys gazed at her sadly, “but I think you have earned your sweet, and Balerion’s as well.”

  
Rhaenys stuck out her hand as Varys reached into his robes. Before he could take anything out, though, a soft voice called from inside her chambers. “Rhaenys has had enough sweets, Lord Varys.”

  
The door opened, and Mother stepped out. She looked even more tired than Jeyne did, but there was something hard in her gaze as she looked at the Spider “Now please be on your way. There is much to do, even at this hour.”

  
“Of course, Princess Elia,” Varys said as he bowed deeply, though I do think the little dragon was asking on behalf of mighty Baler-“

  
“The kitten is being seen to, though I appreciate your diligence.” Mother smiled at Varys then, though that hardness remained. “Your duties, my lord?”

  
Varys bowed to Mother, and then turned and bowed to Rhaenys. “Until we meet again, sweet princess.” With that he turned and walked down the hall and around the corner, back towards the Holdfast most like.

  
“Come along, Rhaenys,” Mother turned to smile at her, any hardness vanished with the Spider. “Your brother and I have been waiting for you.”

  
Rhaenys walked into her chambers where she saw that Aegon was indeed resting on her bed, swaddled in cloth. She didn’t see much else as Mother decided to envelop her in an embrace that threatened to squeeze her breath out of her chest. She gasped out, “Mother, you’re squeezing too tight.”

  
Elia released her then, an adoring look on her face. “I’m sorry, little one. It’s just that I’ve missed you so much since last we spoke.”

  
“That was this morning,” Rhaenys pointed out, “and Aegon was sleeping then too-“

  
She gasped as she looked as her brother again. Curled next to his face was a ball of black fur, which grew slightly larger and smaller as it breathed. She walked towards her bed in a huff. “Balerion, I told you that Aegon would get his own kitten if he wanted one.” She picked him up as the pet sleepily blinked up at her. “You are mine and Aegon—“

  
At that moment, her brother revealed his true colors by opening his eyes and mouth and wailing. Rhaenys dropped Balerion back onto the bed and clapped her hands over her ears. “I just got here Aegon! What is it that you hate about me?!”

  
“He doesn’t hate you, Rhaenys,” Mother chided over Aegon’s wails from her seat a few feet away, “he just misses the warmth. Look, he’s already calming.”

  
Rhaenys looked back down where to her annoyance Balerion had resumed his place at Aegon’s side. The baby had ceased his crying and was now doing his best to align himself with the kitten.

  
“Traitor.” Rhaenys walked over to her Mother and sat on her lap, glaring at her kitten and brother. “Why does everyone love him more?”

  
“No one loves him more or you less, sweetling,” Jeyne said soothingly from her place near the corner, “it’s just that he’s still a baby, so he needs extra attention and help. You were the same way at his age.”

  
“I was not! Take that back!”

  
“Oh you were, sweetling.” Rhaenys glanced behind her, where mother was smiling down. “And if I had my way, you’d go back to being that small and stay that way forever.”

  
Rhaenys made a face at that. “But then I couldn’t do anything fun. I’d never get to be like the first Rhaenys, with her music and dancing and flying.”

  
Elia laughed at that. “No one will get to be like that Rhaenys ever again, I’m afraid.” She glanced out the window, where the sun had just finished sinking under the horizon in the west. “Now, it’s time for bed and some sleep.”

  
“I can’t do that when Aegon has stolen my bed and my kitten.”

  
Jeyne moved to carefully pick up her brother. He didn’t stir as Balerion was replaced by the nursemaid’s bosom. She bowed to Mother, then slowly walked out of the room. Rhaenys flung her sheets back and crawled into her bed, glancing at Mother as she did. “Can you sleep with me tonight, please?”

  
“Sorry sweetling, but Aegon still needs me close by.”

  
Rhaenys pouted as Mother tucked her under the sheets. The pout melted as Elia kissed her warmly on the forehead and smiled down at her. “Good night, my little dragon.”

  
“Good night, Mama.”

As her mother walked across the chamber and closed the door, Rhaenys felt the need to sleep rise irresistibly within her. _Perhaps tonight I’ll dream of the dragons again. The red and the black._

  
_The white and the gold...._  
*  
The next thing she knew, a hand was tearing her out of sleep, shaking her roughly. “Princess, rise! We need to move, now!”

  
“Wha-?” Rhaenys sat up and blinked rapidly, shaking herself in an effort to awaken. She peered up at the figure who had roused her. A golden man, save for the skin on his face and the white cloak that hung from his shoulders. “Ser Jaime, what are-?

  
“Quickly, Rhaenys,” The knight snarled at her, making her gasp at his tone, “We don’t have time for your questions! We must get to your mother and brother and be on our way!”

  
Rhaenys had never heard him speak like that before. He sounded angry and hurried and scared. _But Kingsguard aren’t supposed to ever be scared. They are the bravest men alive, besides the dragons._

  
She shook herself one last time and threw the sheets back. She scooped up Balerion and got off the bed. Ser Jaime grabbed her hand and began striding towards the door, Rhaenys hurrying to keep pace rather than be dragged along.

  
They didn’t go far. Ser Jaime walked to the door to her mother’s chambers and pushed it open. “Princess, we need to go now!”

  
Mother was already up. But she didn’t look normal. She was dressed plainly, with no jewels or orange and red silks that she favored. A simple gown with a scarf wrapped around her head. In her hands she clutched Aegon, who watched them all with wide eyes, but for once did not cry.

  
“Ser Jaime.” Mother moved to his side. “Has everything been prepared?”

  
“Far from it, Elia,” Jaime growled, “some fuck has either slipped up or sold us to the king- doesn’t matter much either way, they’re coming and we need to be gone when they get here!”

  
With that he turned and began dragging Rhaenys again. Mother hurried along right behind him.

  
Ser Jaime was still speaking. “My father’s host arrived outside the walls in the last hour. Rhaegar isn’t far behind. If we can get to the stables and grab horses we can get to the gates. Even now, no man of the City Watch will refuse a Kingsguard’s order.”

  
They were down the stairs and heading for the tower entrance when Rhaenys heard shouts coming from outside. Ser Jaime heard them too and stopped, cursing under his breath. “Back up the stairs, now!”

  
They had just begun the climb when a shout came from behind them. “Ser Jaime, halt! Bring the woman and her children now, or face the king’s justice!”

  
“Go to hell, Thorne!” Jaime shoved them behind him and drew his sword, the steel reflecting the torchlight dancing off his armor and hair. “Elia, the second level. The storage room, beside the wine casks. Look for the loose stone.”

  
He didn’t wait for a response, slowly walking towards the entrance, where a man in armor with a steel nasal helm waited with a drawn blade. Alongside him was a goldcloak, and behind them Rhaenys could make out more men with steel in hand.

  
She felt Elia grab her hand and begin pulling her up the steps. She didn’t fight, but her gaze stayed on Ser Jaime, catching the way his sword rose and fell as it met the helmed man’s strike. His other hand thrust his torch at the goldcloak’s face, making him curse and back away. Then the stone arch of the stairs blocked her view and Rhaenys could no longer see, only listen as the sound of combat followed them up.

  
At the second level, Mother pulled her to the hall where Jaime said to go. She was quick to fling open the door and push Rhaenys inside. She followed her in only to put Aegon in her arms and begin searching the ground. Rhaenys just stood there, shivering with cold and fear, listening for the sound of footsteps, praying that they belonged to the Kingsguard they’d left behind.

  
“Rhaenys, here!” She turned to see Mother had pried a stone loose from the ground. She was motioning towards it. “Quickly, get inside, now!”

  
Rhaenys came over and peered down. There wasn’t more stone like there was supposed to be, but a dirt hole big enough for a grown-up to squeeze into. For her, it would have been comfortable if it wasn’t so cold and damp. She grimaced as her Mother lowered her into the gap.

  
Looking around, it became even stranger. There was no stone to her left, under the room- in fact, she could feel a breeze coming from that direction. She stopped gazing down when Mother lowered Aegon into her arms. But as she held her brother, she realized some of his wrappings were gone. Rhaenys glanced up to see Mother holding the missing linen, wrapping it around a bottle of wine that she had taken from one of the stands.

  
Rhaenys sense of wrong was growing by leaps and bounds. “Mother, what are you doing? Where are-?”

  
“Rhaenys, listen to me,” Mother interrupted, kneeling down so that she could cup her cheek in her hand, “I want you to go where the wind lives. Take your brother and follow the wind. Don’t stop for anyone, do you understand? No one!”

  
Tears were glistening under Mother’s lashes. “I love you, my little dragon.”

  
She released Rhaenys’ cheek, and began returning the stone to its old place in the ground- on top of Rhaenys and Aegon.

  
Rhaenys cried out as darkness flooded around her. Aegon’s cries joined her, echoing down the passage the breeze was coming from. Above her, Rhaenys thought she could hear weeping, but then the sound came of a door opening and then closing, and there was silence, save for her crying brother’s wails.


	2. Trial by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A city falls, and the wheel turns.

**Barristan**

The rebels knew how to move.

Barristan Selmy glanced down at his mount. The bay was impatient, pawing at the ground as row upon row of its fellows passed it by. The men astride them were an odd company, southron knights and Dornish riders mixed with Valemen and northern warriors. For all the differences of their homes, their faces shared something- steely determination, focused on their goal.

_One could almost forget that these men were prepared to kill each other not long ago,_ Barristan reflected. _That they haven’t is largely thanks to the three men who command this column_.

He shook his head to center himself and then wheeled his mount to face south, spurring it forward into a trot, overtaking the men as he made for the head of the army. They were moving at a brisk pace, hoping to reach the capital before any could come to the aid of King Aerys. Even now there were rumors among the men of Lord Tyrell breaking the siege of Storm’s End to march to the defense of King’s Landing.

Barristan had his doubts. The Tyrell’s had styled themselves as royalists but, like many others, were more loyal to the prince than his father. He thought it more likely that Lord Mace would remain in the stormlands, waiting for a decisive victory for one side or the other. _A craven strategy, though some might call it wise._

“Barristan!”, a voice called to him from the front. “What kept you? Finally starting to feel your years?”

He smiled at the speaker as he rode to his side. “You’re one to talk, Martell. When did you take your oaths again?”

“Marcher swine.” Prince Lewyn Martell may have reached his fifties, but he looked t least ten years younger, near Barristan’s age. The Dornishman was dressed in the armor and cloak of a Kingsguard, which clashed well with his dark hair and features. All that marred it was the bandages that were wrapped around his upper-left arm, a memento from a stormlander they had encountered after the Battle of the Bells.

For all that, the prince looked eager as they continued south. The same could not be said for their two companions, the rebels who had made common cause with a prince against a king.

The Lord of the Vale’s expression was hard, but it was directed towards their destination to the south. He had counseled that the horse slow their pace so that the foot could keep up, but Prince Rhaegar had insisted that time was of the essence. “My father will be quick to seek those he can punish in our stead,” he had reminded them at the Trident. “So, we must return to King’s Landing before he or any of his remaining supporters have a chance to act on that wish.”

While Jon Arryn showed no pleasure at their current task, it could at least be said that he didn’t question the prince’s command. The man at his side was another case entirely. _Though if I am honest, no man could blame him, not when his family has suffered so for the prince’s actions_.

Eddard Stark may have been young, but the northman looked almost as old as Lewyn and Barristan, so grim and cold was his expression. King’s Landing held virtually no interest to him, a distraction on his way to the thing that mattered to him most. It was strange in a way, the idea that a Stark was more eager to reach Dorne than a Martell. Only the intervention of the lords Arryn and Tully had stopped the northman from gathering up his host and marching past the capital. That and the letter handed to Stark by Prince Rhaegar.

Barristan could sense the pain Stark felt as he watched him read. Rage had turned to confusion, confusion to sadness, sadness to hope, before finally settling into grim acceptance. Even now, many wondered what words Lady Lyanna had written to him, but only two men alive knew the answer, and neither would give it up.

Whatever the letter’s contents, it had done what all else had failed to. The Lord of Winterfell was now riding alongside old friends and foes alike, though he clearly hadn’t forgotten who the latter used to be. “Perhaps if you spent less time japing with each other we may have come south more quickly. We are not the only ones heading for the city, remember.”

Barristan hadn’t forgotten. But he did not wish to be reminded of that by the young northman. Neither did Prince Lewyn.

“Said the man who almost marched past it. You forget the kind of men the reach produces. Lord Tyrell won’t bestir himself for the Mad King.”

“Perhaps not. But there are other lords who are as close or more so than Tyrell, and one that could still match us in strength.”

Barristan had heard this before. The former rebels had made their wariness of Casterly Rock clear. Nor were they alone. Every man here knew better than to dismiss Tywin Lannister easily.

All save the one at his side. “The old lion hasn’t stirred himself before now. Why would he come to the defense of Aerys at this time? Does he wish to be defeated so badly?”

“The Reach has spent a good part of its strength already,” Barristan reminded his fellow Kingsguard, “if Lord Tywin declared for the king now, and succeeded in defeating us, he would hold the Seven Kingdoms in the palm of his hand.”

“Pah.” Lewyn flicked a hair out of his face. “I should see to the rearguard, make sure-”

“I’ll see to that, Prince Lewyn. Jon, perhaps you’d join me?” With that, Stark wheeled his horse around and rode back the way they’d come. Lord Arryn gave an apologetic look to the Kingsguard knights, then followed his former ward.

“The Mad King?” Barristan gave Lewyn a sharp look. “Do not forget your oath. Even now, we are sworn to His Grace’s service-”

“Let’s not go down this path again, old friend. I needn’t remind you, Jonothor isn’t here to save your hide this time.”

That wasn’t how Barristan recalled it. The three Kingsguard had fiercely argued over the matter, even as they awaited word of the prince’s condition after the duel with Robert Baratheon. Lewyn was for the path the prince envisioned, with Ser Jonothor Darry agreeing, albeit more gently. Only Barristan had made any real effort to speak on the king’s behalf.

“We are sworn to serve, to obey and protect,” he had reminded his sworn brothers, “and seeking his deposition with the aid of rebels goes against all of the oaths we swore.”

“Barristan, there is more at stake than a damn crown!” Lewyn had been fiery that day, fueled in part by concern both for the prince and for his niece and her children. “House Targaryen’s very survival is in the balance. Not to mention the welfare of the realm and all the innocents who will suffer if His Grace can continue as he has!!”

“He is right, brother,” Jon Darry had chimed in, an earnest expression on his face and entreaty in his voice. “And besides, we are sworn to protect the king above all else, you said it yourself. That includes protecting the king from himself. If we stand against the prince, it could weaken the support of the rebels. Who do you think will be more likely to support the dragon? One of their own? Or men whose very rebellion was and is founded in the current king’s reign?”

It was Jonothor’s argument that had finally won over Ser Barristan. The future king was asking for his aid, and the survival of the royal family compelled him to give it.

That didn’t change his anger now. “He is still the king, and even after this is done, the father of Rhaegar. He deserves better than to be slandered by members of the Kingsguard.”

Lewyn rolled his but did not argue with Barristan. His focus was on reaching King’s Landing and seeing to the safety of his kin. While Barristan shared that goal, his thoughts lingered longest on the four Kingsguard who weren’t marching with them. _Gerold, Arthur, Oswell, Jaime…_

It was the last name that caused Barristan the greatest concern. The young Lannister was the only Kingsguard left in King’s Landing, and his father’s relationship with the king and his loyalty to Rhaegar made him a likely target of Aerys’ rage. _The lad is arrogant and conceited, but he doesn’t deserve the king’s wrath. Hopefully Pycelle or some other king’s man can keep Aerys from doing anything drastic. Assuming Ser Jaime hasn’t done something foolish…_

“Sers! The city is just ahead!”

Barristan was torn form his thoughts as a freerider came galloping up from ahead. His mount was frothing, its flaks bloody, so hard had its master pushed it to fly.

Lewyn looked at the man like he was simple. “Is that so? I never would have guessed, given the little time I’ve spent in King’s Landing and the crownlands!”

The man flushed at that. “Of course, ser. What I meant to say- that is…”

He gasped for breath. Lewyn growled with impatience.

“Spit it out, man!”

“It’s under attack!”

Barristan and Lewyn glanced at each other. Barristan knew they were both asking the same question. _Someone beat us here? Who, and why are they attacking?_

“Their banners were hard to make out, but I spotted the Crakehall boar, the Brax unicorn, the Clegane hounds, and the-”

“The lion of Casterly Rock.” Lewyn turned and began bellowing orders to the column, spurring his horse down the line as he did. Barristan spurred his mount forward, so that he could see the capital’s plight for himself.

If the scout was right, then Tywin Lannister had finally stirred. He had not marched to King’s Landing as a savior, though.

_A Lannister pays his debts. And the Lord of Casterly Rock is paying his now. To the king who hungered for his destruction._

_Seven saves us all._

*

They were divided on how to advance, though not on whether they should do so.

Lord Arryn had summed it up well. “The prince and the foot are half a day behind us. We can’t wait for them. I wouldn’t trust Tywin Lannister to see to the royal family’s safety if a sane man reigned in the Red Keep, and they have Aerys in that role.”

The question was whether or not the Lannister host could be trusted not to attack them. Barristan and the royalists thought so, while Arryn and Stark argued the opposite. If Tywin would so quickly turn on his king, how could he be trusted not to turn on Rhaegar and his allies?

“Oh, so you’re the only trustworthy rebels in the realm, is that right?” Lewyn eyed the two lords and the vassals who followed them. “You have nerve to call Lannister untrustworthy when you are guilty of the same crime.”

Ser Lyn Corbray spoke out at that. “Mind your tongue, Dornishman. Do not forget that you are speaking to the Lord of the Vale.”

Lewyn sneered at Corbray. Before he could retort, however, Barristan broke in.

“Why don’t we send a party into the city? A few hundred men with some of our leaders. The rest can await outside the walls so that, if a fight breaks out, they can form up outside the walls and fight on from there.”

Most of the rebels didn’t like that idea. To his surprise, Stark spoke up in support of the plan.

“Three hundred men, half our men and half yours. I will lead ours.”

“Lord Stark.” A pale lord with a pink cloak raised his voice. “Perhaps Lord Arryn should be a part of this party. After all, given what happened to your-”

“Thank you, Lord Bolton. Your consideration is appreciated. I will lead the party, however.” Stark turned to look at the Kingsguard. “The sooner this is ended, the sooner I can be on my way south.”

Barristan nodded respectfully, then turned towards the prince of Dorne. “One of us should remain behind.”

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought if you think I will wait out here while you seek out my niece.” Lewyn raised an eyebrow at him. “And we both know that you will not wait while I do the same.”

Barristan yielded with a shrug and sigh. “Let’s be thankful the prince’s injuries forced him to stay with the foot. Otherwise he would have already ridden to the keep, Lannister’s be damned.”

The meeting broke apart quickly after that. Stark sent his men Cassel and Reed to grab one-and-a-half hundred men while Lewyn and Barristan did the same. The two groups met fifty yards away from the rest of the horse. _Hopefully this proves a wise decision._

The company rode at a brisk pace towards the Dragon Gate. Normally imposing, with portcullis drawn down, doors closed, and guards on the walls, the gate and doors were both open, and there were no men in sight as they rode through.

They were welcomed into the city by screams and smoke.

The Dragonpit loomed over them as they turned west and began riding along the wall. As they rode, the bodies became more common- not just soldiers and men, but women and children as well. Barristan forced himself to keep his eyes forward as they rode. _The Red Keep, we must get to the Red Keep. I cannot let Elia and her children suffer this fate._

“Hold there!” A man in crimson addressed them as they rounded a corner onto the Street of Silk. He was followed by a group of soldiers in similar garb, numbering around twenty or so. “Whose command are you part of? M’lord wants the streets leadi-”

He trailed off at the sight of the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. That, and the number of men who rode behind them. Stark addressed him in the iron tones of one in command. “Where is Lord Tywin? We are here at the prince’s command to see to the royal family’s safety.”

The Lannister man looked up at Stark, glanced again at the Kingsguard, then settled his gaze back on the northman. “His lordship should be just inside the Lion’s Gate, to the west. He told the men to seize the ground around the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor.”

Stark glanced behind him. “Rodrik, take forty men and go tell the Lord Lannister that we are here and what our purpose is. The rest of you, with me!”

He spurred his horse forward, causing the Lannister men to scramble out of the way. Barristan, Lewyn and the rest followed, save for Ser Rodrik and his party, who turned and began riding swiftly west, following the walls.

The carnage became less pronounced at they came closer to the Red Keep. The men who had come through here had a greater goal besides pillage and rape to focus on. _I pray that goal is not what I fear it to be._

The Red Keep hadn’t fallen they arrived. Lannister men crowded about a few feet behind the moat, shields high and archers aiming at the battlements. So far as Barristan could see, there were few men atop the battlements. Looks could be deceiving, however, and it was no surprise that the Lannister commander had chosen to hang back.

As they approached the men near the gates, a group of riders came at them from the other way. They were a strange group to Barristan’s eye, with a giant in steel catching his eye. His helm was decorated with a steel fist, and the three hounds on his breastplate seemed to snarl at him. _That must be the young Clegane, the one they call the Mountain._

His attention was torn away as the lead rider spoke up. “Lord Stark, we did not think to see you here.” The unicorn prancing on his surcoat was a similar color to Prince Rhaegar’s eyes, though the man himself clearly was no Valyrian.

“I was thinking much the same, Lord Brax.” Stark glanced up towards the Red Keep. “I’m surprised that they aren’t firing at you. Or us, for that matter.”

“There’s something happening. A fight or attempted coup inside. It started just before we got here and Lord Tywin’s growing tired of waiting to see who wins.”

_A struggle inside?_ Barristan turned his head to gaze at the Red Keep. _That can only mean greater danger for all concerned, especially Princess Elia and the children._ “We need to get inside, now!”

“Agreed, Selmy.” Stark turned towards the gates. “Perhaps there is a postern gate, or one of those tunne-”

He broke off as Lewyn strode up to the gate. He roared up, “YOU SORRY SON OF WHORES, HEAR ME NOW!”

He paused, waiting as some heads poked up over the battlements to look at him. Barristan expected that those inside the gatehouse were listening as well. Lewyn repeated himself, still loud but less so, “Hear me now, this war is over! This castle will fall! If we’re patient, we will just sit back and wait for you oafs to starve to death or finish killing each other! If we lose patience, we’ll storm the battlements and slaughter the lot of you! Think we can’t? We have Barristan the Bold, The Mountain That Rides, and before long Prince Rhaegar will be here and he and the lords with him won’t stop until they tear that castle apart!"

“SO, SAVE US ALL A LOT OF TROUBLE AND OPEN THE FUCKING GATE!!!”

With that, Prince Lewyn Martell turned around and walked back to the rest of the company. Stark and Brax stared at him as he came to stand by his horse.

“Prince Lewyn-” Stark shook his head. “ _Are you mad_? Aerys has them all-”

_Clang._

The gate shuddered, then began to slowly rise, the doors behind it creaking open as it did.

When it finished doing so, men began walking out of the Red Keep. They tossed their swords and maces away from them as they did so, raising their hands as the Lannister archers lowered their bows to turn their arrows towards them.

“Hold your fire!” Stark turned towards Brax. “Unless you have orders to the contrary.”

Brax shook his head. “Take them” he shouted to the Lannister soldiers, “but only kill those who resist!”

Without waiting, Barristan and Lewyn dismounted and began jogging towards the gate. Behind them, they could hear Stark and the rest of the mounted men getting off their horses and following behind. As they exited the gatehouse, Barristan looked towards Maegor’s Holdfast. “We need to get in there, now.”

“This way.” Lewyn turned left and quickly began climbing a set of stairs. “Around the Tower of the Hand, down into the courtyard in front of the Holdfast.”

The two knights quickly reached the top and began turning, left and right, up and down. They moved quickly, along walls and through towers. As they moved closer to the Holdfast, a noise came to Barristan’s ears. He put a hand on Lewyn’s shoulder, willing him to stop.

“Wha-?” Lewyn stopped as the sound reached his ears. They began walking again, slowly this time, trying to make out the sound and where it came from. A moment later Lewyn began jogging, then running, Barristan following right behind. He spoke as he went, more to himself than Barristan. “That’s…it can’t be… please-”

But it was. Barristan could make out the sound as well.

_Screaming. Screaming and laughter._

_The laughter of a madman._

The two Kingsguard leapt the last few stairs and burst out of the tower. Maegor’s Holdfast loomed just ahead, the doors wide open. The throne room sat just beyond. It was there that the noises were emanating from. _There’s another one,_ Barristan realized, _one screaming, one laughing, and one more- I know that voice!!_

“Please, enough. Your Grace, she doesn’t know-”

“But you do, and you won’t tell me.” The laughter was gone now. “But perhaps you are right. It is high time that you learned the price of disobeying your king, of waking the dragon.”

Barristan and Lewyn strode through the doors, moving down the throne room. As they did, Barristan’s heart sank as he beheld a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The first thing to catch his eye was the fire. It burned in front of the Iron Throne, flames of green curling up and flaring out as if it were alive. Wildfyre, a pyre of it that stood as tall as the Clegane knight and just as wide as well.

Princess Elia was also there, held up by two men in armor and cloaks of white. Her face was pale, a cut running from just beneath her left eye down to top of her neck. Her gown was torn, and bruises shown through. For all that, there was a fire in her eyes as she gazed at her tormentor.

The cloaked men didn’t look like much. Were it not for their armor and cloaks, Barristan would have been hard-pressed to see anything distinguishable about them. One had pockmarks on his face. The other had long brown hair that reached his shoulders. The armor and cloaks they wore were familiar to him- they were mirror images of what he and Lewyn were wearing. _Kingsguard. He’s taken strangers of no fame and made them Kingsguard. They’re most like hedge knights, if knights at all._

The man speaking was the same who had laughed so gleefully not a few moments before. His clothes bespoke wealth and power, robes deep in color and a crown upon his brow. His hair hung low, his beard reaching his navel. The nails curling from his hand looked more like talons, and they were clasped tightly in front of him. He looked much older than his nine-and-thirty years. Aerys’ expression was of disgust and rage, directed at the woman held in front of him.

There were two others there, both closer than the king or princess to the fire. One was a heavy-set man, with a hooded vest covering his head. Think leather gloves covered his hands- indeed, all but his face was covered in leather and cloth. His face was turned from them, but Barristan knew what it would hold- a crooked nose, crooked teeth, and blue eyes that came alight when gazing at flames. _Rossart, Hand of the King and head of the Pyromancer’s Guild. How far the office of Hand has fallen._

The woman Rossart was holding was a horror to see. Whatever clothes she had worn were gone, either torn off or burned away. Her flesh was covered in burns, some still smoldering against the few patches of skin left untouched. Her brown hair was burned short as well, licked away by the bonfire. _I know her. She’s the nursemaid, Jeyne, that’s her name._

_‘She doesn’t know.’ The children, Aerys want’s the children._

_He will not have them._

“What dragon is that?!” Lewyn bellowed as they began advancing. “All I see is a madman playing with fire, threatening innocent women. Care to face a man grown, Aerys?”

The king spun about to face them. “Ah, the Dornishman shows his true colors at last,” he sneered, “though your treason is far from unexpected. Oh yes, scum, I’ve known of your plots for some time. Your victory will not come to pass as you hope.”

“More ravings from a sorry excuse for a king!”

By now, the cloaked knights had dropped Elia and drawn their swords. The princess was on her knees, staring at the Kingsguard as if she expected them to vanish at any moment. Rossart had dropped Jeyne and was backing away, his eyes darting from the two knights to Aerys and back.

“You call me king, yet rebel against me!” Aerys’ smile was gone, terror in his eyes as he turned his gaze towards Barristan. “And you, the knight who did his duty, who saved his king. Now you’ve come to see him dead, is that it?”

“Your Grace, we can still end this without more death.” Barristan glanced at Elia. “Tell those men to lower their swords. Rhaegar has sworn-”

“Rhaegar?!” The king reared up as the name left his lips. “The traitor! The pretender! He and his ilk will not have my realm! It will burn, all of it! Burn, burn, BURN!!!! Aerys screamed that last word and kept screaming after that. “BURN THEM ALL!! BURN THEM IN THEIR BEDS, IN THEIR HOMES, IN THEIR STREETS!! BURN THEM!! BURN-”

“ENOUGH!” Lewyn roared, sword in hand as he charged the king. The royal knights rushed to meet him, blades flashing as the wildfyre flared before the throne. The prince met one strike with his blade, leaning back as the other sword slashed near his face. The man who wielded it raised the blade to strike again, only to turn as Barristan charged into the fray.

The sword of the Kingsguard knight whistled as it slashed at his counterpart. He was strong, but slow. Barristan rained blows on him, forcing him back as Lewyn fought his opponent. The knight stabbed at Barristan, but he slid to the side and brought his blade down on the man’s wrist.

The knight gaped at the stump where his hand used to be. He looked up just in time to see Barristan’s sword coming as it punched through his gorget and out the back of his throat. The man stared into Barristan’s eyes, then fell back as the Kingsguard pulled his blade free.

The sound of running brought Barristan’s gaze up. He turned to see others- Stark, Brax, even Clegane- charging forward from the yard, steel in hand. Then a new cry bade him turn to the throne once more.

Aerys had seized Elia’s hand, and was dragging her towards the flames. “I SAID THEY WOULD BURN!”, the king screeched, “AND THEY W-”

He never finished the sentence.

It was as if time slowed. Barristan surged forward, dropping his blade as he did. With one hand he grasped Elia’s arm and, with the other, put his hand to the king’s chest and _pushed._

Aerys lost his grip on Elia and stumbled back. His eyes met Barristan’s for just a moment, fear and pain shining within.

Then he fell into the flames. And the screaming started anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had already written this when I posted the first chapter. I was tempted to make some changes, but decided to stick with my first instinct and see where the chips fell.
> 
> See y'all next time.


	3. Rising Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the fall of the old, the rise of the new.

**Rhaegar**

The sun was beginning to rise when he awoke.

 _It is as if the days grow longer and I sleep less to meet them._ Rhaegar rubbed his eyes and turned to the side, rising to sit up while he roused himself further. As he did he grimaced as pain lanced through his side. He looked down to see that the bandages covering his torso had held, though the reddened linen belied the wounds that Baratheon’s warhammer had dealt him. Rhaegar sighed, looking up to the window just beyond his bed.

The light was a dull red, made more so by the smoke and haze that yet lingered over the city. Three days had passed since the last of the fires had been put out, yet their remnants stubbornly remained, casting a pall over the people, common and otherwise. _Though that may have less to do with the flames and smoke than it does with the end of an era._

Rhaegar’s gaze turned then, seeking out the thing that he had dreaded to wear for years. There it sat, not fifteen feet away from the foot of his bed, the seven gemstones gleaming in the new daylight. The crown of Jaehaerys the Wise weighed heavily on his head, though Rhaegar still thought it a better choice than those of his other ancestors.

It had first touched his head not two days past, as he knelt in the Sept of Baelor to be anointed by the High Septon and hailed by the lords and ladies present. The former had been terrified, not of Rhaegar but the people who still lingered about the city with sullen eyes and grim faces. The latter had been few, many departing to complete tasks set to them in the days just before.

There was much to be done. Hoster Tully had been quick to return to the riverlands, to deal with any remaining loyalists and bandits lingering about. Much of the Arryn forces had departed as well, either overland to return via the Bloody Gate, or by ship to Gulltown. Lord Jon himself had remained, having accepted his offer to serve as Hand of the King. He had been quick to write to Highgarden and Storm’s End, hoping to bring the Reach back into the fold without more conflict.

 _If only the others had stayed_ , Rhaegar thought grimly. _They could have done much to aid me in putting the embers of war out for good and all._

The obligations of family had spoken louder than the wishes of a king, however, and Rhaegar had been in no position to refuse. Stark had been the fiercer of the two, reminding him of his oath to allow him south, to seek out his sister and bring her from Dorne. That was, if she was in a state to travel at all. Her time has grown nigh. _Please, Lyanna, do not waver. There is so much we’ve yet to share, we promised each other._

The one concession Rhaegar had won from him was his oath to travel to Storm’s End first. The siege had been a dull affair according to sources, yet Stannis Baratheon needed to be relieved quickly, and Lord Tyrell would need a human messenger to reinforce those reaching him by raven. Even so, Eddard Stark would not linger long in the stormlands, and Rhaegar knew it.

The Lord of Casterly Rock had been another matter entirely. Tywin had been quiet in his determination, yet his will had been as implacable as Eddard Stark’s, if not more so. His insistence on seeing to his son came before all else.

Ser Jaime had been found on the second level of the tower where Elia and the children had made their home, just past the stairwell. His face was marred by a cut along his left cheek, though was otherwise untouched. The killing blow had been under his arm, piercing through to his heart. Jaime had died with a snarl on his lips, likely enraged to fall at the hands of a common guard with no glory or wealth to his name. The young Kingsguard had taken the lives of five men before falling, among them a knight of House Thorne.

 _His father held back in the hope that this wouldn’t happen, yet the son refused to wait for rescue,_ Rhaegar thought to himself. _He was young, but a good man, worthy of the cloak Gerold had given him._

_He gave his life to safeguard our future. The very future this war was started for._

Rhaegar shook himself and rose, moving to the clothes he had laid out before retiring. He slowly donned leggings and a tunic. They were simple things for a king to wear. He did not intend to go far, however.

He crossed the room and slowly pushed open the door that led to the queen’s chambers. Inside rested the greatest treasures in his life.

Elia had barely spoken since the night his father had died. She had stared at the smoldering remains of the fire once it had burned out, refusing to move until it had done so. Lewyn told him that afterwards her only words and actions were for the nursemaid who had burned for her defiance, and for the children who emerged from beneath the Red Keep.

Rhaenys had carried her brother through the Maegor the Cruel’s tunnels until they had reached the shore beneath the castle, and then continued all the way to the Lion’s Gate, miraculously without being attacked or losing her way. That Lord Tywin had recognized the royal children was thanks to his time in King’s Landing during his time as Hand. He had immediately placed them under heavy guard, and refused to turn them over to anyone save Rhaegar himself.

Rhaenys’ appearance would likely haunt him for the rest of his days. Her clothes had been replaced by clean silk and linen at Tywin’s command, but the cuts on her feet and arms were still fresh, her face unwashed, and there had been a fierce and wild look in her eye, like a beast cornered and facing death. That expression had left her face when she saw him, replaced by joy, but also pain and confusion. She hadn’t left his side since, save to sleep with her mother at night.

She continued to do so now, curled against Elia’s side as her breath came and went, slow and deep. The young Targaryen’s sleep was often restless, likely haunted by memories of darkness and war. Here, though, she seemed capable of finding some peace.

Aegon was another matter entirely. The infant prince remained untouched by the events of the last few days so far as they could see. Even now, the babe smiled in sleep, nestled in the arms of his mother, his sister by his side.

Rhaegar smiled at the sight, joy at their survival tinged with sadness that they’d come so close to disaster.  _Would that I could snap my fingers and make their troubles vanish. Alas, the powers of kingship are not truly so great, when all’s said and done._

He turned and left the way he came, being careful to make as little noise as possible. Once he had returned to his chambers, Rhaegar crossed to the hallway. He opened the door, where he was not surprised to find Ser Barristan, standing guard alongside four royal guards. “Did you get no rest, ser?”

The Kingsguard turned to look at him, bloodshot eyes answering the question without any words. “Prince Lewyn and I are the only Kingsguard here, Your Grace. If one of us guards the queen and the royal children, the other must see to you.”

Rhaegar sighed. “You are of no use to your king if you end up falling over from exhaustion, Selmy.”

“I’ll manage-”

“That wasn’t a question, ser. Go sleep, an hour’s worth or so. Then come to the small council chamber. I wish for someone to represent the Kingsguard and, in the absence of Ser Gerold, you shall serve in that capacity.”

“Prince Lewyn,” Ser Barristan began, but Rhaegar cut him off once more.

“Requests that he stay as close to his niece and her children as possible. I agree, so the Kingsguard must be you.”

The knight hesitated, then came to attention as he met Rhaegar’s stare. “As you command, Your Grace.” With that, Barristan turned and walked down the hall, his back as straight and stiff as a steel rod.

 _The Bold is owed much,_ Rhaegar thought as he turned to walk to the hall’s other end. _Despite that, the Sack cost him much as well._

The tale had spread like a plague; how Barristan the Bold had thrown the Mad King from the princess into a blaze of wildfyre, where Aerys the Second had perished as Rickard Stark and so many others had done so. While most considered it a fitting end, there were still those who wondered whether the knight truly deserved praise for the deed. Even now, Ser Barristan Selmy was becoming known by a new name, one much more sinister than the Bold.

_Kingslayer. As if my father was ever truly worthy of his title._

Before long, Rhaegar arrived at the small council chamber. It would be some time before the councilmen joined him, but that was how it should be- a king needed to be more engaged with matters concerning the realm than those that served him. Otherwise, what was the point of ruling?

Rhaegar wasn’t alone for long. Not twenty minutes later Jon Arryn arrived, the older man walking as swift and steady as Ser Barristan. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He wasn’t surprised to see Rhaegar- Arryn had been the first to learn of his early risings, and approved of such.

“Lord Hand.” Rhaegar waited until the valeman took his seat next to the king, then addressed him. “Any word from the south?”

“Not that I know of. I did receive word late last night from Lord Tully, however. House Vance and Bracken have both raised their banners in rebellion, declaring for your brother, Prince Viserys. He marches to put them down, as swiftly as possible.”

“They likely won’t be the last.” There were many who might seek to take advantage of the chaos still roiling the Seven Kingdoms. Even among those who wished Aerys’ fall, men whispered of how a rebellious prince was not worthy of rule, while a loyal prince still lived. _And I’m sure that his young age and malleable nature have nothing to do with it._

That Viserys wasn’t here could be laid at his father’s feet as well. Both he and their mother, Queen Rhaelle, had been sent to Dragonstone, ostensibly for their protection. Now, however, some saw the prince and his mother as rallying points of discontent, a lie which would endure until Rhaegar’s brother and mother were reunited with the rest of their family.

Rhaegar rubbed his brow. “We cannot allow dissidents to re-fight the Dance of the Dragons. The sooner we have Viserys back in King’s Landing, the sooner the malcontents will lose their pretext.”

“I may have some good news on that score, Your Grace,” a voice called from just beyond the chamber entrance.

Varys walked into the room, a smile on his face. He quickly situated himself in the seat reserved for the master of whisperers. Almost immediately behind him came Barristan Selmy, who looked as if he had not slept at all in the time since Rhaegar had spoken with him. The Kingsguard did not sit, instead coming to stand just behind Rhaegar, hand on his sword’s hilt.

The Spider tittered at that. “Considering becoming the Kingslayer twice-over, ser?”

Barristan did not reply, but the gaze he turned on the eunuch was deafening on its own. That and the visible tightening of his hand’s grip on the sword.

“A poor jest, Varys,” Lord Arryn spoke disapprovingly. “If you cannot show Ser Barristan the respect his actions and position demand, perhaps you should not be on this council.”

“Perhaps. Though that would make for even fewer at this gathering. The small council grows smaller every day, it seems."

He was not wrong on that score. These were the only members of the council present; the Grand Maester was absent, busy tending to Rhaenys’ nursemaid at Rhaegar’s order. Half the seats remained unfilled, with no one yet appointed as master of ships, coin, or laws, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was in Dorne.

Of his father’s appointments, Rhaegar intended to retain Ser Gerold Hightower, Varys and Pycelle. The first he could trust with his life, while the second not at all. Despite that, Varys’ knowledge made him too dangerous to set loose, and Rhaegar had had his fill of killing. Pycelle was fond of House Lannister, perhaps too much so, but he was still qualified for his position, and a sense of continuity would go a long way towards placating the highborn and commons alike.

“Ser Gerold will return to King’s Landing before too long,” Rhaegar found himself saying, “and as for the remaining council seats, they will be filled shortly. Lord Arryn, I want a decree to be issued, letting the realm know that my father’s banishments are hereby voided, and those unlawfully deprived of land and titles are hereby restored to them.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Arryn looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you think any of the exiles would be suited for the small council?”

“Jon Connington is young, but remains loyal to a fault and is capable, his military defeat aside. I have a mind to name him master of laws.” Rhaegar turned to gaze at the other men in the room. “As for the masters of coin and ships, I thought we could turn to the Reach, perhaps House Redwyne or Tyrell.”

“A…wise concept, Your Grace,” Arryn allowed, but an eyebrow was up, a question in his gaze as his eyes me the kings. He didn’t ask it, though, instead turning to Varys. “And this news you claim to have?”

“Ah yes, how negligent of me.” Varys turned to the king. “Speaking of House Redwyne, I have learned that their fleet has left Storm’s End. The bulk of the ships are sailing south, presumably back to the Arbor. A notable number are heading the opposite direction, however.”

“North?” Ser Barristan spoke for the first time, eyes wary. “Headed for Blackwater Bay, most like. Is it possible that Lord Redwyne intends to declare for Prince Viserys?”

“No, if he intended to do so he’d keep his fleet together, to be better prepared for battle.” Rhaegar looked to Varys then. “I take it the lord himself is sailing home?”

“No, Your Grace. My little birds tell me he is with the smaller group.”

“Then he is most likely coming here, to pay homage to the king,” declared Ser Barristan.

“I think that likely, ser,” Jon Arryn agreed, “and I doubt he would do so without his liege lord’s agreement. This is a strong sign that the Reach intends to accept His Grace without a fight.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Lord Arryn,” Rhaegar spoke out. “I’d wait and see what Lord Redwyne actually does before presuming to know his intentions. The same goes for Lord Tyrell.”

The meeting went quickly after that. They spoke of the measures being taken to ease the plight of the capital’s smallfolk, and the reports of reavers striking along the Reach’s western coast. Finally, talk turned to the undoing of Aerys’ final project. _Thank the gods that it was never fulfilled._

Rossart had attempted to flee as Barristan and Lewyn made to save Elia. His flight had ended on the blade of Gregor Clegane’s greatsword, which took him in one side and left through the other, cutting him in two. While all agreed his fate just, it had also guaranteed Rossart couldn’t tell them of his king’s plans. They had only learned of it thanks to the gods favor. _Though mere chance is just as likely the culprit._

Rodrik Cassel had been on his way to the Red keep from Lord Tywin’s tent at the Lion’s Gate when he noticed the pyromancer leaving the Sept of Baelor. The man had attempted to flee, but was caught by the northman and his men. When dragged back to the Sept, his glances towards the undercroft entrance had been noticed, where Ser Rodrik had been horrified a large catch of wildfyre situated beneath the Sept.

Further questioning proved fruitless; fortunately, the lords Stark and Lannister had been quick to order their men to the notable places of the city- the Dragonpit, Flea Bottom, the Red Keep, and so on- to search for other catches. They had found them, hundreds of jars in each place, awaiting word from Aerys or Rossart to light the catches. Were it not for the surrounding of the Pyromancer Guild by the Lannister forces, they may have succeeded.

“I want the wildfyre destroyed,” Rhaegar stated firmly. “And the Pryomancer’s Guild is forbidden from creating more. They will need to prove their loyalty before they are allowed to do so again.”

The council agreed. With that, the meeting was ended, and the sitting members departed.

All save the Hand. _That question needs an answer, no doubt._ “What troubles you, Lord Arryn?”

“Your Grace…” Arryn hesitated before beginning again “Rhaegar, the appointments you are suggesting… they may send a message that is better left unsaid. If House Tyrell and Redwyne were to take positions on the small council, then those that rebelled alongside Robert will be almost completely denied access to the crown.”

“Yourself excepted, of course.”

“I am but one man, Your Grace, and a Hand is only as powerful as a king allows him to be. Perhaps reserving one or two offices for men from the riverlands or a Baratheon vassal-”

“That cannot happen, Lord Arryn,” Rhaegar stopped him there. “If I cut off powerful houses from the council, especially those that fought for my father during the Rebellion, that sends a different message I wish to avoid.” He stood and walked to the window, looking out as he continued speaking. “At this point, the only house who I can say with any confidence is with me is House Martell, and even they have been given reason to doubt me as of late. The Seven Kingdoms are in flux, and how the crown moves as the dust settles will shape the fate of House Targaryen and all of Westeros for centuries to come.”

Lord Arryn looked at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar sighed and turned back towards him. “Overtures will be made to the others, but _not now_. I need them to be patient, so I can make sure the royalists accept peace under my reign.”

Arryn sighed. “I will do my best to convince them, Your Grace. But Ned- that is, Lord Stark-”

“Believe me, I know.” Rhaegar’s thoughts began to drift then. “So much of the future depends on news from the south. From Storm’s End, from Highgarden, and from Dorne most of all.”

_Lyanna, so much rests on you. Please, stay strong. Your brother is coming._

_But I fear that winter follows close behind._


	4. A Brother's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night falls over Casterly Rock, but it is darkest just before the dawn.

** Tyrion **

The hall echoed with a woman’s weeping.

There had been much of that as of late. Since word came of the Fall of King’s Landing. More since the return of Tywin Lannister’s host, and the body they had borne with them.

The Hall of Heroes was a large place. The hall was forty feet wide, and stretched on for hundreds more. It still hadn’t reached its final length; there was still room to mine, and whenever new space was required, it was made. Dark, tan-colored stone made up the walls, floor and ceiling, while gold and crimson adorned the various tombs built into the sides.

Tyrion was quiet as he walked along the Hall of Heroes. A boy of nine, he would have been easy to overlook even if he hadn’t been borne as he was. And he had learned to tread with a light foot in the passages of Casterly Rock. _One never knows who is about, and here are some who are less nice to run into than others._

The most famed and worthy members of House Lannister were interred here. Some even had their arms and armor displayed, to better keep their memories alive in the minds of those present. _Loren the Lion, Gerold the Great, Ser Tion and Ser Jason,_ Tyrion recalled as he walked down. Yet the greatest hero he knew was the one he sought now, at the end of the Hall.

Jaime’s tomb was a wonder to behold. The effigy on the top was well done, though Tyrion thought that no stone could truly reflect the life that had suffused his brother’s features. Jaime had been buried in the armor and cloak of his station, his blade rested on his chest. The coffin itself had been carved from stone the color of gold, with marble lions prancing along the edges.

_To remind all of who lays here. Ser Jaime the White Lion, of House Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard._

Tyrion was but a few feet away when he found the source of the grief he had heard from down the Hall. She was dressed warmly, as though to ward away the cold that had seeped into Casterly Rock these past days. He couldn’t see her face, though her hair had fallen from beneath her cloak, golden curls that caught the candlelight. _I know that hair._ Tyrion realized who was here with him, and began to turn when, alerted by instinct or simply to move away, she turned and saw him.

_Even in tears she is beautiful,_ Tyrion thought. Her expression changed as if bewitched, shifting from grief to fear to rage and disgust so quickly it might have been a spell. His sister drew herself up before addressing him.

“What do you think you are doing here?” Cersei’s eyes were narrow, the green flashing in the light the small flames were casting about them. “Why can you not just be gone from here? First Mother, now Jaime, he’s mine, do you understand?”

Her rage came off her in waves, fueled by the grief etched into her heart. Despite that, Tyrion stood firm. “He is my brother as well. And it is only proper that he be remembered as he was, a-"

“Don’t you dare tell me what he was! How could you possibly know? He was my other half, the better part of me, while you just wobbled after him like you were simple!”

“Everyone knows what Jaime was!” Tyrion’s eyes were stinging, his own anger and sorrow coming to the fore. “He was a hero! He saved the new queen and the king’s children! He-"

“HE WASN’T THEIRS! HE WAS THERE BECAUSE A MADMAN WANTED TO HURT US AND HE DID! NO ONE, NOT SER ARTHUR, NOT FATHER, NOT EVEN _Rhaegar_ -"

Cersei’s screams stopped then. The tears were flowing freely now, on her cheeks and Tyrion’s. Her voice was a whisper now, but he could still make out the words.

“Rhaegar. I thought he could do it. He defeated that traitorous bastard Baratheon. He was the prince everyone admired, wise and strong, just and kind. I was supposed to be by his side, not that Dornish wisp. I could have kept him safe. I could have stood alongside Jaime, we would have triumphed, but _she_ …”

Her voice trailed off. Cersei seemed to lose herself for a moment, then shook herself. Her gaze returned to Tyrion’s, taking in his tears for the first time. A sneer came to her face, but before any more venom could fly from her lips, footsteps began echoing from the other end of the hall.

Her gaze rose as Tyrion turned and beheld his father’s last remaining brother. “And what is happening here?” Ser Kevan had aged since King’s Landing, like most in Casterly Rock. Yet he showed no softness now, instead frowning at his niece and nephew. “A servant swore he heard someone screaming bloody murder, yet I see no blood. Is this how you honor your brother? By quarreling beside his tomb?”

Cersei flinched, but quickly resumed her fierce glare, her eyes dry as she faced her uncle. “I have more right to be here than anyone else, even Father. What makes you think Jaime would want this little monster near his place of rest?”

“He wouldn’t mind!” Tyrion declared. _Why can’t she give me that much, at least?_ “Jaime was always kind to me! He knew I was his brother, not like y-”

“Enough, both of you!” Kevan sighed and rubbed his eyes. “As it happens, you cannot remain here, Tyrion. Tywin wants to speak with you, now.”

“What?” Father wants a word? _He never speaks to me, except to scold me or warn me that I shall never do the things I wish to_. Tyrion could not think of any reason why his father would wish to speak with him now.

Cersei was clearly of the same mind, an unheard-of occurrence. She looked confused and suspicious, but seemed to settle on haughtiness. “Good. Leave us be, you little monster.” And with that, she turned and knelt again before Jaime’s tomb, as if in prayer.

Kevan placed a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “Come. The hour grows late.” Tyrion let himself be turned and began walking with his uncle. As he did, he cast one final glance towards the tomb. _Even she loved him, a fool can see that. Why? Why would the gods take him, and now of all times?_

As they walked through the winding halls of Casterly Rock, Tyrion pondered all the rumors that had been circulating among the servants and guards. Reavers in the Reach. Dragonstone invested by Lord Redwyne. The siege of Storm’s End lifted. The wolf lord heading towards Dorne. And the new king, the new king above all else. _This is a time for heroes. We need them now. And the only one House Lannister had is gone._

Some might call Tywin such, but Tyrion didn’t think so. His father was a legend, both here and throughout the Seven Kingdoms. But a hero and a legend were not the same thing, and Tywin himself had appraised his children of the difference. “A hero is a man all women want and all men want to be,” he had declared, “who will only do what is right and honorable, no matter the cost. A legend is a man whose legacy endures for centuries after they are dead, whose actions were guided by a vision of what could be, not by childish notions of virtue. A man of legend may be ignored, even vilified by those who come afterwards, but he will leave behind accomplishments that are _tangible_. A hero offers nothing but their _name_.”

“Now tell me, which is the better sort to be?”

Jaime had always rolled his eyes at the speeches their father would give. Cersei, on the other hand, would listen with rapt attention, like a faithful person listening to a septon. Tyrion had listened as well, but always thought that his father could have softened his words some, to better keep Jaime’s attention.

He doubted those were the kind of things his father would tell him now. Those were always meant for Jaime, or maybe Cersei, but never Tyrion. _A dwarf son could never build a legacy, not when the golden twins were poised for greatness._

In truth, Tyrion did not begrudge them that. Being a great lord or lady had always seemed like a frightfully hard job to him. Even being a knight, whether a Kingsguard or hedge, had seemed terribly unappealing to him. He had been thinking of becoming a priest, or better yet a cartographer, sailing to all the wonders of the known world, and then to the unknown parts as well. He would name places and people and be remembered for his courage and wit. _A legacy all my own. One even Father would acknowledge._

Not that that would ever happen. Lord Tywin had made his views of Tyrion’s notions clear from the start. “If you wish to act a fool,” he had told Tyrion once, “then I will dress you in motley and you can caper about Casterly Rock to your heart’s content.”

He and Kevan had finally reached the door to his father’s chambers, Tyrion realized. The oaken door was closed, as it always was. The lion’s head knocker stared at them challengingly. Kevan grasped it now, making their arrival known. “Enter.” His father’s voice commanded from within. Tyrion and his uncle did as they were bade.

The Lord of Casterly Rock’s chambers were magnificent by any standard. All about them were crimson silk and gold thread. Windows let golden sunlight pour in, illuminating the chambers. Lions roared and ran throughout the tapestries and sheets and curtains. It was behind the latter that the true lion now sat, writing in a quick and precise fashion as Kevan and Tyrion approached.

Tywin Lannister was an impressive man to look upon. His head was shaved, save for the sideburns that resembled the beast that graced his house’s sigil. In his forties, his back was as straight as it had been in his youth, and his broad shoulders belied a strength that was at odds with his slender body. He had a commanding presence which made people unknowingly straighten and more attentive. His face was hard, and the sharp gaze hid gold-flecked, green eyes always sent a jolt down Tyrion’s spine.

They did so again as they caught his mismatched eyes briefly, before looking up at Kevan. “Thank you, Kevan. You may leave us.”

“Of course, Tywin.” Kevan gave a quick, short bow before turning and leaving the chambers.

Now Tyrion was truly confused. _Father wants to speak with me, and he wants to do so alone? What is this about?_

Tywin sealed the letter he had been writing and placed it to the side, focusing his gaze on Tyrion. “I suppose you wish to know why you’re here.”

_When in doubt, best to agree with him._ “Yes, Father.”

Tyrion almost kicked himself then. How could he have forgotten? _It’s my lord, always my lord, you fool._

If Tywin noticed, he did not mention it. Instead, he slid some parchment across the desk towards Tyrion. “I’m told that you are quite a reader. Read that, then tell me what you make of it.”

Slowly, Tyrion reached out and picked up one of the parchments. He glanced down and scanned rapidly. _Ships gathered at Lannisport, men ready to sail, coin needed for wages…_ He put it down and looked at his father. Tywin motioned to the other papers.

Tyrion quickly read them all. One was an account of a reaver attack on the Shields, another the small number of men House Marbrand had sent to join the Lannister host, and a third detailed the wealth mined from the Golden Tooth under the watch of Lord Marbrand’s younger brother. After finishing, he looked at up at Tywin. “What does all of this mean?”

His father looked at him with a frown on his face. “Perhaps Kevan was wrong when he attested to your wit. If you cannot make sense of this, then leave me.”

Tyrion flushed. _I will not suffer more insults, not after Cersei._ He scanned the messages once more. “There are reavers moving down the coast. They aren’t attacking our shores, but…” His gaze turned towards the first letter. “You think that may still do so. So you’re gathering a fleet in Lannisport.”

Tywin’s expression hadn’t changed, yet his gaze held a renewed interest as he studied Tyrion. “But?”

“But?” Tyrion thought back to what he had read. _Coin. Coin, of course._ “The men on the ships, the captains, the dockworkers and shipbuilders- they’ll all need coin. So…” He trailed off then. _House Marbrand._ “You want Lord Marbrand to pay the coin. Rather than use Lannister gold.”

“Yes, though in a sense _he_ will use Lannister gold.”

“What? How-?” Tyrion stopped, remembering the letter about the Golden Tooth. “You think his brother has been stealing. And they didn’t send enough men to march to King’s Landing. This is punishment for both.”

“Well, well.” Tywin never smiled, but Tyrion could sense satisfaction coming off of him. “It appears Kevan may have been right. Perhaps this notion of his isn’t so fanciful.”

“What notion is that, my lord?” Tyrion asked, pleased to have succeeded yet still confused.

“To name you as heir to Casterly Rock.”

For a moment, all feeling dropped away. As did all thought, save for a single protest echoing in his mind. _No, no, that is Jaime’s role, not mine!_

“But…but…bu-“Tyrion stammered before he got the words out. “But I’m your younger son! Jaime is sup-”

“Don’t.” The satisfaction was gone, the cold restored with a vengeance. Tywin’s eyes had narrowed, much like Cersei’s, though where in hers he had seen fire, now Tyrion only saw ice. “Do not finish that sentence, or I swear to the gods that I will have you thrown into the sea.”

Tyrion swallowed and then looked down, blinking rapidly. Eventually, he heard his father sigh. “I suppose there is no avoiding the subject. Look at me, Tyrion.”

_He used my name?_ Tyrion did as he was bid, tears once again flowing. Tywin grimaced to see them, but did not scold him. “Are those for you, or for you brother?”

“For Jaime, of course!”

“Good. Self-pity never did anyone any good.” Tywin shifted his gaze, gazing out the window, towards the Sunset Sea. “Jaime was the heir to Casterly Rock, white cloak be damned. It was never his fate to serve as a glorified bodyguard to any king, especially not _that_ one. Yet no matter how many may wish it different, he is gone, forever a hero for maidens to swoon over and men to offer toasts to.”

“Now we must look to the future.” Tywin’s gaze was on him again. “I could try to name Cersei, but the western lords would never accept it, especially when I’m gone. Besides, she is fierce, and more than a little clever, but also reckless, unyielding, and easily enraged. Such traits might be stomached in a man, but in a woman? No, Cersei would only serve as Lady of Casterly Rock if she were wed and content to let herself be controlled, which will never happen.”

“But why me?” The question left Tyrion’s lips before he could think better. “Why not Kevan? Or Tygett? Or even Lancel? Why me?"

“You are my son.” Tywin said it simply, but they still struck Tyrion like an arrow.

He sighed and looked out the window once more. “It will not be easy. You’re condition will make you seem weak. Men will laugh at you in their cups, and some to your face. Lords will think you easily defied, and seek to pillage your lands with impunity. Yet, Kevan thinks that you can be made ready to face that, and still triumph.” Their eyes met once more. “So Tyrion, you will be my legacy, gods help us all. And when you’re time comes, you will forge one all your own. For Casterly Rock. For House Lannister.”

“Are you ready to begin?”

That wasn’t what Tyrion was thinking at all. But everything he was thinking, all his protests about Jaime and Cersei, about his uncles and aunt, and about _him_ most of all, they all fell away. As he met his father’s gaze, he knew there was only one way to answer him.

He bowed his head. “Yes Father. I am.”

_I may be a little lion, but I am still a lion._

_And I will roar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before we finally reach the Tower of Joy. Hope y'all enjoy.
> 
> See you next time.


	5. Tower of Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-awaited reunion.

**Eddard**

He was walking down a hill of green, toward a winding river that ran deep and wide. Beyond it was a shining city, ringed in walls, a red fortress nestled within. Fear bade him turn away, but honor commanded he advance.

“Ned!” He turned to see his friend walking at his side, a scowl on his face. Robert Baratheon stood as tall and strong as ever, armor polished, blue eyes gleaming. “Did I not tell you that dragonspawn could not be trusted? Where were you when I made to end him?!”

 _The words were Lyanna’s._ Eddard Stark tried to protest, but it came out a whisper, _no one could have known, it was her. I knew that, why didn’t you heed me?_

“Please, as if you thought you could sway me! And when words failed, the dragon slew the stag, while the wolves howled and the falcons cried!”

His friend reached to his collar, pulling it down so that Ned could see what lay beneath- a gash, exposing muscle and vein to the open air, blood pouring forth. “You turned your back on the man you once named brother! And for what? To serve the scion of a family that would gladly see yours and mine dead?!”

Ned didn’t get a chance to answer. They had reached the waters. Robert stopped, fury etched into his face. Though whether at Ned or whatever bade him remain, he could not say.

Eddard walked through the water. As he did, the riverbed seemed to rise to meet him, never letting the water come higher than his knees. He soon reached the city, though the scene had changed. The city still shined, but flames were the source, fires of green and orange and red. There was screaming, terrible noises torn from the mouths of men, women, and children. Yet it was dull to him, a distant roar that he understood but did not allow to become overwhelming.

Eddard walked through the smoke and flames, blind to all but those who awaited him, those who haunted the hall before the throne of madmen and conquerors. They were there when he arrived. The fire blazed as all the others, green flames snapping and clawing at the air around it. From within Ned could make out a crown, battered and melted yet still recognizable. The head it clung to was devoid of skin and hair, but eyes still sparkled at him from within. _They are laughing. Even now, he finds joy in this, in death and flames._

“What made you think that would change?” The speaker was a tall man, strong and handsome. His features resembled Ned’s, though his expression held more humor than Ned thought he held in his whole body. Brandon sighed, glancing at the flames before turning to his brother. “Some fools preach that people change when they’re dead. That whatever ailed them is life is lifted and they become the best version of themselves. Fucking nonsense, all of it. We stay as we are, or is it how we were?”

 _Why, Brandon?_ Ned stared at him in anguish. _Why couldn’t you wait? This was supposed to be your place, not mine. Winterfell, Catelyn, all of it. If you had-_

“Spare me, little brother. You forget our sigil, the lines that we come from. No worthy son of Winterfell would sit idle while his kin were in danger, surely you’ll give me that much! Brandon shook his head and grinned. “The northern way, the old way. That is what we live by, Ned. It has served us well, and it shall still. Find her and bring her home, whatever the dragon might say. Even dragons fear the winter, and winter is coming."

Eddard shivered at that, forgetting the flames and the dead man laughing within. _And if I can’t?_

“Please. You always acted more a mouse than a direwolf. That was before the war, before you learned the lesson Lyanna and I always tried to teach you."

 _The pack,_ Eddard recalled. _The pack survives the winter, where the lone wolf perishes. Right, Brandon?_

There was no answer. Eddard looked away from the flames, turning to look for a brother who was no longer there. As he did, the flames quit their struggles, succumbing to the darkness around them. Shadows surged forth, seizing Ned even as he kept crying out for the brothers the war had taken from him.

_Brandon! Robert!_

_Brandon!!_

*

“Brandon!” Ned kept struggling against the shadows, even as they cursed him and bade him awake.

“Stark, get a hold of yourself! Wake!”

“Ned, please! It’s nigh on dawn, we can move now!”

“Wha-?” Eddard blinked, looking up at the familiar face staring at him, worry creasing his brow. “Howland? What is going on?”

“Oh, spare me.” The speaker rolled his eyes as he released Ned’s arm. “I was ready to leave you behind, Stark. If you’ve managed to tear this cloak, by the Father, you’ll answer to me.” The man grabbed the cloak in question, examining the white fabric under the torches and pale light that preceded sunrise.

Howland rolled his eyes. “Pay Darry no mind, he’s just anxious about what the White Bull will do to him when they meet.”

Ser Jonothor turned to glare at the crannogman. “While you should be anxious over what I will do to you.”

“It is not my day to die, ser.”

The Kingsguard snorted at that. “Every man alive thinks that, every day he rises to do his work. Yet they are wrong a good part of the time, as you well know.”

Eddard rose from his bedroll, putting his hand on Howland’s shoulder as he did. “It is near dawn, you said?” When Reed nodded, Ned turned to Darry. “Then it’s time we were moving.”

“Lord Stark.” Ser Jonothor gave a less-than-convincing bow, then turned, walking to where the horses were waiting. Ned sighed as he turned west, gazing towards the place where the dragon had left his sister for war. _It is high time we were reunited, and I do not wish her “guardians” to know that we are so close._

The “tower of joy”, as Rhaegar had called it, was not impressive to look at. It stood forty feet high, with no walls or arrow slits, merely some windows placed at intervals around the tower. Yet Ned knew it to be more formidable than it looked. The mountains made any approach nigh on impossible, save the one path that led to it. Here, thirty men could hinder a force twenty times larger as it attempted to enter the Prince’s Pass. _They do not have thirty men, but we do not have an army_.

Besides Ned and Howland, they were accompanied by five other men; Mark Ryswell, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, and Willam Dustin. Loyal men all, they had been Ned’s friends before he had been sent to foster in the Vale, and all had begged to accompany him to Lyanna’s side. Eddard’s only other companion was there at the new king’s insistence. “If you and your fellows arrive at the tower with no one from my circle,” Rhaegar had warned, “then Arthur and the others may think the worst and challenge your presence. Jonothor will prove your words true.”

The others had grumbled at being minded like this, but Eddard had to acknowledge that Rhaegar had the right of it. _Oswell Whent, Gerold Hightower, and Arthur Dayne. Renowned warriors all. A fight could very well go their way._

Ned rolled his bedding up and walked over to his horse. As he did, he grasped his sword and pulled, satisfied that the blade did not stick in the scabbard. He quickly mounted and turned to see the others had already done so or were moving to do so. Without words, he spurred his horse forward, his companions riding to keep up.

As they rode, Ned thought of his dream. He had been having it oft of late, usually experiencing similar events each time. Robert was always there, while Brandon and his father often joined him yet did not always do so. Occasionally the living came to him as well- Catelyn tearfully looking up at him just before he led his host to war, Stannis Baratheon grimly thanking him for lifting the siege after learning of his brother’s death, Jon Arryn sadly pondering the deaths of two of his heirs. _So much pain and death, and for what? If Rhaegar is mad enough to have risked everything, what does that make Lyanna? Why?_

It was a question that the whole of Westeros was asking. Ned certainly could not answer it, and he did not know if his sister would provide one.

*

They reached the tower as the sun began to break in the east. There were candles in the windows, but no one could be seen in them. But there was noise, echoing through the tower and the mountains around it. Ned shuddered to hear them, recalling the horrors from his dream. _Screams, but different from that day._ _Those came from innocents dying on blades. Those are the screams of a woman._

_One struggling in the birthing bed._

_Lyanna. No, please no._

Ned reined in fifty feet from the tower, his fellows quickly following suit. He wanted to leap from his horse and dash to the stairs, to seek out his sister and make her safe. But he was stopped from doing so by the presence of three knights standing at the base of those steps.

They were all garbed in the white cloaks and silver armor of their station. To the left stood Whent, the bat of Harrenhal on his shield and wings embracing his helm. In the center stood Ser Gerold, his posture straight and sure as he stared at the approaching company. And last was the man who all knew to be the deadliest. Dawn gleamed in his hand, the blade ringing as the wind rose, caressing the sword and the man who wielded it. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. _He looks as if Gregor Clegane would not last a minute against him._

A fresh cry tore Ned’s eyes from the Kingsguard and back to the tower. _There isn’t time for waiting._

Eddard dismounted and addressed the men before him. “You are a long way from your king, sers.”

“We are sworn to obey and protect.” Ser Gerold’s voice echoed from within his helm. “The king commanded us to protect the lady, and we have obeyed his order.”

“Well, now you have new orders.” Ned nodded towards Ser Jonothor. “Your sworn brother can attest to that. We are to join you in seeing to my lady sister, than see her to Winterfell. Once we reach King’s Landing, the four of you can take your place by the king’s side.”

“It is true, Gerold,” Jonothor quickly broke in, “Rhaegar has sent us for that purpose. There is no need for blood to be shed by any man’s blade today.”

“I fear you mistaken, brother.” Whent spoke now, addressing Darry. “Blood is being shed at this very moment, as you can undoubtedly hear. And I fear that our blades will taste blood before this day is done.”

“What?” Rage stirred within Ned. “You would stand against us? And violate your king’s sworn command?” He could not believe this. These men had followed Rhaegar’s command even as he rebelled against his father. Why would they turn against him now?

“No, Lord Eddard,” The Sword of the Morning addressed him, his tone iron as he held Dawn steady, “but you are not the only souls to come to us, and you will not be the last.”

“What do you mean?” Howland peered at Ser Arthur. “If not us, then who?”

“Those who named themselves loyal to the king, and bade us stand aside so that they could see to the end of that which they blamed for the war and those lost to it. They refused to name the king they served, however, and so turned away.”

“That was two days ago, and not a hint of them since.” Gerold motioned around them. “But in a place of shadow and sand, many things can move without being seen. And we have not lowered our guard.”

“Speaking of which.” Oswell pointed his sword toward their party, “I don’t suppose there are more in your little band who are running late?”

Eddard turned to look where Whent’s sword pointed. From the path that they had just taken, a cloud of dust was rising. And it was getting closer. _Horses. Mounted men._

“No, there are not.” He drew his blade, eyes on the curve of the path that came before the final approach to the tower. His companions followed suit, backing towards the tower. Ser Jonothor took his place to Arthur’s right, the Kingsguard arraying themselves before the steps. The northmen put themselves between and alongside the knights, forming a half-circle that blocked all access to the tower from the path.

And all the while, the screams continued.

A lone rider turned the corner and rode towards the tower. He was garbed like a Dornishman, his armor painted in tan and red, mirroring the colors of the mountains around them. His sword was unadorned, though Ned expected the steel to be fine.

The rider halted when he saw the men blocking his way. “Hightower, I will tell you one last time! Stand aside! We are king’s men, same as you! Let us end the threat to His Grace’s trueborn children, and avenge the dead of the war that this whore started!”

“Fuck yourself!” Willam Dustin yelled from beside Ser Oswell. “Even if there were a hundred of you, we wouldn’t budge. Bugger off before I decide you need shortening by a head!”

The man glanced up as a fresh cry echoed from the tower. Then the rider scanned the arc of men. “If you insist on defending that harlot, then so be it!”

The man gave a sharp whistle. Then noise began echoing from the path From behind him, men began striding from around the path’s curve. Their mounts had been left behind, but they looked well-rested, and were all armored in the Dornish fashion with swords and axes ready in their hands. From behind the first came more, a column of men with the tower and those guarding it fixed in their eyes. Ned quickly scanned the approaching group. _Twenty, maybe as many as thirty. They’ve the numbers, but we have the high ground._

Mark Ryswell clearly thought the same. He was muttering to the men around him. “Don’t let them flank us, and hold the line. Otherwise, this should be as simple-”

He suddenly stopped. Ned glanced at his companion. Mark had a puzzled look on his face, the arm holding his blade coming to his side, where fletching suddenly sprouted. Then he gave a shriek and fell to the ground, writhing in agony, hands clawing at the bolt, sword and shield forgotten.

“Bastards have crossbows!” Whent hefted his shield, shaking the others from their shock. They quickly made to do the same. Then the men approaching them broke into a charge, and all hell broke loose.

Eddard quickly found himself trading blows with a man wielding two axes. He had the reach, but the Dornishman was quick and kept coming in close, forcing Ned to back away. The man brought one axe down on his blade, then swung the other at his head. He ducked as the blade missed him by an inch, then shoved his shoulder into the man’s chest, forcing him back. The man stumbled, then tried to bring his axes up as Ned’s sword came at his neck. They only got there after the man’s head had been half-sliced from his body. Eddard did not even stop to watch the man fall.

He turned and saw Ser Arthur fighting three of the men at once, Dawn singing as it sliced the air around the knight. He threw himself at one of the attackers, his blade catching the man in the collar, though the cut was shallow. He yelped and hopped backwards, away from both the northman and the Kingsguard.

One of his fellows turned to see what had happened. That mistake cost him his life. Dawn tore into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt between Ned and the man he had struck. The third quickly realized his peril and backed away, coming shoulder to shoulder with his fellow. Dayne quickly advanced, not a hint of fear in his stance. Ned glanced about. He couldn’t tell what was happening, the dust thick and the bodies around him moving too quickly.Then the bolt hit him.

Agony lanced through his arm and upper torso. He staggered back, hand coming to his left shoulder, where the bolt had lodged. He quickly looked down the hill, where four men had crossbows in hand, two reloading, and the other two seeking new targets. _Even the Kingsguard’s armor won’t hold against those._

A man rushed past Ned. Ser Arthur had apparently realized the same thing, and charged down the hill towards the crossbowmen. They quickly realized their peril, the two with bolts loaded pointing them at the Sword of the Morning. Eddard started to move when a body slammed into him from the side, shattering his view of Dayne. He pitched forward, landing hard in the dust and rocks.

His arm shrieked in protest as the bolt’s shaft snapped against the ground. He payed it no mind, rolling to the side as a sword planted itself where his neck had been not a moment earlier. He swung his blade up as he came to a knee, catching the man who wielded it along his cheek. The warrior howled, but swung back at Ned, his blade rising just in time to catch the blow. The force of it rattled his teeth, but he quickly slid his blade down and drove it through the man’s gut, grasping the Dornishman’s sword-hand as he did. The man screamed, then shrieked as Ned pulled his blade free and kicked him away.

The air was full of dust and screams. Eddard’s arm and skull were both throbbing. The ground felt like it was shaking. No, the ground _was_ shaking. _Why is the ground shaking?_

He had barely turned when the horse charged past him. The rider who bid them stand down was now in the thick of the battle, a mace in hand, charging at the one Kingsguard who still stood on the tower steps. The White Bull stood firm, his blade firm in hand as he stepped off them now, running at the horsemen. The man raised his mace, but the Kingsguard was faster, his blade flashing forward. It caught the horse in its skull and lodged there. The mount pitched forward, taking its rider down with it. But it had not lost its momentum, and Ser Gerold Hightower was hit by the horse’s body. The two men and stallion all tumbled to the side of the path- and then off it entirely, their weight and the force of movement taking them off the cliff that marked the path’s side.

Eddard barely had time to process the fall of the Lord Commander when he noticed that the sounds around him had changed. Shouts were echoing around him. He turned to see that the enemy who were still on their feet were running, fleeing down the path that led to the tower. The shouts were coming from his fellows, calling out to one another as the dust began to settle. “How-” Ned struggled to get his tongue to move with his lips. “Howland, where are you?”

“Ned.” He turned to see the crannogman limping up to him. There was a fresh cut on his forehead and blood stained his right leg, but the man did not seem seriously injured. Yet his expression was grim, glancing about at the bodies around them. “They truly wanted to get to the tower.”

“Well, they failed.” Jonothor Darry came up to them. His cloak was filthy, and scratches ran across his armor, but the Kingsguard appeared unhurt. He may be the only one who can say such. “Now, where the hell is Arthur?”

“Here, Jon.” Ned turned and was relieved to see Dayne walking up to them, Dawn in hand. There was a bolt jutting out of his armor, but when Reed moved towards it he waved him away. “It looks worse than it is. The head pierced my side, but failed to hit anything important. They panicked, forgot to aim.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Darry glanced about. “Where is the Lord-Commander?”

The memory hit Ned like a charging destrier. _Ser Gerold_. He turned and walked to the side of the path. When he reached the cliff’s edge, he looked down.

The cliff stretched down for hundreds of feet. At its base were a many shapes, most rocks, dark read and tan. Wherever the horse and its rider had landed, Ned could not see them. The White Bull, however, was easy to spot against the dark stone that had caught him. He grimaced at the sight, then glance away, his teeth gritted.

“Seven fucking hells.” He turned to see Jonothor had walked to stand by him. He was glaring down at the sight, teeth bared in rage. His eyes were reddened. _By the gods, the man is crying_ , Ned realized.

The Sword of the Morning raise his voice. “One of us will have to see to him. Head down there and build him a cairn.”

Ned turned to survey the other bodies on the path and steps. “Not just him.” He started to walk down the path when Howland grabbed his arm.

“Ned, you’re going the wrong way.”

Eddard looked at him, forgetting for a moment the reason that he had come. Then it came back to him, and as he turned to behold the tower, he was gripped by fear as he realized that it was quiet. The screams coming from the tower had ceased.

_Lyanna._

*

Ned was out of breath when he reached the last chamber, at the top of the tower. He had taken the stair two at a time, his wounded shoulder forgotten, his sword left at the path. Now, standing outside the door, he recognized a smell coming from the chamber, one that he had left behind with the others. _Blood._

_Blood and winter roses._

He steeled himself, then pushed the door open.

The chamber was small, though not cramped. There was little in terms of furniture, a few chairs and a table to the side. A woman knelt by it, dressed in plain clothing, her expression stricken, her eyes tearful as she glanced at Ned, and then returned her gaze to the room’s central feature.

The bed was large, and it was there that Eddard found his sister.

Her beauty was still plain to see, but pain and struggle did much to conceal it. Her dark hair was matted to her head by sweat, and her skin was pale, the exception the flush in her cheeks. The sheets and bedding around her were soaked in blood, which also stained the roses that had once been blue. Her body was shivering despite the heat, curled near the headboard. Curled around something. _No, someone._

He walked to her side, kneeling so that he could be closer to her. “Lyanna, can you hear me? Sister?”

“Ned..?” Her eyelids fluttered, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you here? Truly?”

“Yes, Lyanna. I’m here and I swear, I will never leave your side again,” Ned vowed, his confusion and anger swept away. All that remained was fear, which grew deeper as he glanced at the bloodstained sheets. “Don’t give up. Howland is coming, he knows something of medicine, he can-”

“Brother, please…” Lyanna’s voice was suddenly stronger, resolve lending her aid. “Please, hold him. Tell me what you see.” Her body relaxed, allowing Ned to see that which had cost her so much to bring into the world.

The babe was quiet, enough so that he almost thought it dead, but its arms and legs were moving, and it gave a little cry as it was taken from the heat of Lyanna’s body. He carefully took the babe from Lyanna’s arms, tearing at the sheets to wrap it in. He glanced at the naked babe before he wrapped it in the torn linen. “A boy, Lyanna. You have a son.”

“Is…is he whole?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ned said in soothing tones. “He is whole, and has a long life to live. With his family in Winterfell, including you.”

“Name…” Lyanna’s voice was growing fainter. Ned turned to yell from the window when her hand caught his arm. “Tell me his name, Ned.”

He glanced at the infant in his arms. He had no idea what to name a child. The only name that came to mind was that of the man who had helped raise him, the same man who had saved him and Robert from the Mad King’s flames, and helped end the war. “Jon.”

He said it quietly, then repeated himself more loudly and firmly. “His name is Jon, Lyanna.”

“He…” She was whispering now, so quietly that Ned had to put his ear to her lips to hear. “He cannot be like me, Ned. Me, or his father…Promise me, Ned...”

“Promise me…”

“I promise it, Lyanna, I swear it by the gods, old and new.” He wrapped an arm around his sister and held her close, to him and to her son. Heedless of the heat fading from her, heedless of the babe’s cries, heedless of the maid’s weeping or his own, Eddard Stark held his sister. “I promise, Lyanna, I promise.”

_I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment I've been waiting to write about. Hope you guys like it.
> 
> The next chapter will be the last before we jump forward a few years. I refuse to just go from here to fifteen years into the future. There's just too much to work with, and a lot of writing to be done.


	6. The Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family regroups, even as they remain wary of one another.

** Elia **

The breeze from Blackwater Bay was warm today.

Elia Martell sighed as she looked out towards the water. _A southern wind, from the stormlands and beyond._ _I wonder if the gods are sending me a message from home._

It had been years since she had traveled to Dorne. Oberyn and Doran both wrote to her often, as well as to Uncle Lewyn, but letters could hardly compare to the red mountains, the Greenblood, the Water Gardens or the shadow city of Sunspear. The Sept of Baelor was lovely, but other than that King’s Landing held no candle to the southernmost kingdom of Westeros. _I once counted the Red Keep a wonder as well, but the Sack changed that. Along with so much else._

Elia turned and looked about the royal chambers. They were far darker than the chambers she and the children had stayed in previously. She kept meaning to replace much of the black and red silk with the oranges and yellows of her home, but there was much else to be done, and she had yet to put anyone to the tsk.

She had insisted that she and the children be moved from their old rooms as soon as possible. The memories of that night, of Elia’s capture and the children’s escape, still hung over them all, including her. Elia thought it best to move them away from where those memories were created.

Now, new ones were being made. And for all her efforts, Elia knew that not all of them were joyful.

She could hear the raised voices through the wall. The queen sighed and stood, walking to the door that separated the adjoined chambers. She guessed at what she would find, and opened the door. Sure enough, her daughter was yelling at the newest arrival to the Red Keep, one whose coming had meant much trouble, for all Rhaegar insisted on displaying unity.

_Rhaenys is doing better, thank the gods._ Her daughter had been suffering night-terror’s since the Sack, but of late she experiencing them less and less. She remained bold and curious, though she was more suspicious of any man wearing royal colors, more so of those who had served the Mad King and remained at court. Those thoughts were nothing, however, compared to her dislike for the silver prince she was arguing with.

Prince Viserys Targaryen was blood of old Valyria, even a fool could see that. His hair was platinum, with the occasional gold thread weaving through, while his eyes were a haunting purple, like amethysts. He was small for a seven year-old, of a size with Rhaenys, two years younger and a girl besides. In manner, he had remained quiet around most, nervously watching those tasked with looking after his health. Rhaenys was one of the few he addressed freely, as he did now.

“What do you know about the dragon, stupid?!” The boy was yelling at her daughter, anger and spite in his face. “I am pure, mother and father married in the old way, while _you_ are just a halfling, with Dornish blood taint-”

“Mother is Dornish, but I am a dragon, same as you! Besides, she has dragon’s blood also, and did not need her parents to be brother and sister! No one does, least of all-”

“She is my sister, and the Valyrian ways are ours! She and I are supposed to be-”

Elia had heard enough. “Are you _trying_ to wake your nephew, Viserys?”

The children spun around to stare at her. Viserys quickly looked at his feet, his nervous nature returning once again. Rhaenys looked ashamed for just a moment, but defiance returned quickly, as she turned to glare at her uncle. “I told him that they were sleeping, but he-”

“Rhaenys, we both know you were not quiet either. Or do you mean to blame Viserys for the things you did?

Her daughter bit her lip, then also looked at her feet. Elia sighed and walked past them, to the two cribs that sat side by side in the room. Aegon remained asleep, completely oblivious to the conflict raging near him. She smiled to see that, though it left her face as she turned to look at her new good-sister.

Daenerys Targaryen was crying, face red with the effort. The sounds she made echoed about the chamber, dwarfing the noise her brother and niece had been making. _She sounds as if a storm would make less noise._

That is what she was being called about the Red Keep. The Stormborn. As the royal fleet had made ready to return to King’s Landing with Viserys and his mother at Rhaegar’s order, a great storm had come upon Blackwater Bay. Most of the fleet had been lost, and the queen-mother had gone into labor. By all accounts the birth had been hard, and the queen had not survived ling after. Her daughter had, however, and both she and Viserys had been brought to the capital after the storm passed.

Barely a month old, her eyes were already purple, an even darker shade than Viserys’ or Rheagar’s. She had some silver hair on her head as well, though she was still near bald. Elia put her lips to the infant’s head as she picked her up and held her close. Daenerys quickly calmed, smiling at the dark woman who had taken charge of her care since her arrival.

Elia turned to look again at the children, infant still in her arms. “We cannot have this fighting continue. Don’t we all remember what your brother the king has said?”

Rhaenys spoke first. “The only thing that can kill the dragons is one another.”

“Exactly right. Your family has ruled for a very long time, and has only faced ruin when fighting itself. You cannot allow that to happen. The dragons must rule together?”

“Even the bastard? The one from Dorne?”

Viserys was wide-eyed, perhaps surprised at his own boldness. Elia certainly was, and Rhaenys looked the same, staring at her uncle before glancing at her mother, confusion and anger on her face.

The capital had been abuzz with fresh gossip since the return of Eddard Stark. Him and his nephew. They had been here not even a week, but their arrival had heralded a dark turn for the court. Almost as dark as Viserys’.

Viserys had been the symbol that malcontents in the riverlands and Reach had used to try to rebel against the new king. They had been swiftly quelled, thanks in large part to his return to his brother’s custody. For all that, ugly rumors persisted, of plots, of planned rebellions or assassinations. It was a large part of the reason that the boy was so fearful, even now.

Jon Snow was another matter. While a few called him Sand, owing to the place of his birth, most named him a northern bastard, owing to his mother’s family. Elia herself preferred to do so. It made it easier to remember who he was, and where he came from.

None that Elia knew of would ever consider him a potential figurehead, but his presence was the cause of the sharpest and darkest rumors of all. Even now, only his uncle and the other northmen were even allowed in the same room with him. The sole exception was the boy’s father. The king, her husband, _Rhaegar…_

Elia quickly shook herself. “That is not for us to decide. The king has many responsibilities, and that is one of them. He-”

“Will he be my brother, Mother?”

Rhaenys still looked angry and confused, but the former was winning out. “He can’t though. The lion, the bat, even the bull died because of him. Even Jeyne-“

“Enough, Rhaenys!”

Her daughter looked shocked at her tone. Elia was also. _Why do I snap at the girl for thinking as I do? She doesn’t deserve that._

Viserys chose then to speak up. “She’s right, why doesn’t Rhaegar just make him go away? Give him to the Faith, or the Citadel. He’s no true dragon. Everyone knows it.”

He stopped there, a defiant expression on his face. For a moment Elia did not see a boy of seven, but a crowned man near forty, fire in his eyes and by his side. _The price of waking the dragon_.

Elia felt the darkness creeping into her mind. She shook her head to clear it. “Enough of this chatter. Both of you, to your bedchambers, now.”

Any protest either of them were readying died at the look in her eyes. Elia Martell may have been frail, but she could be fierce when provoked, though few ever did so. They both turned and walked to the doors opposite where she had entered, heading towards their apartments beyond.

After they were gone, Elia placed Daenerys back in her crib and turned to the chamber window, facing the capital. _King’s Landing certainly looks different from the royal chambers._ The skies had cleared, though the smell of smoke remained. The harbor was almost empty, as merchants and captains avoided the capital for fear of being caught in the violence.

The Red Keep no longer bore the scars of the attack. The westermen had done little damage to the castle itself. Throughout the city, however, the story was very different. Thousands had died in the fighting, looting and rape had spread like wildfire, and the swift departure of the armies from the city had only made it harder for the City Watch to keep order. Even the aid of the royal household, including the Kingsguard, had failed to completely stem the violence.

It had not helped when word came from the south. The news that two more Kingsguard had perished in the Dornish mountains had led to renewed chaos as groups of men, all professing themselves loyal to the king, had clashed in Flea Bottom and the surrounding areas. _The Kingsguard are among the most visible symbols of royal power, and now only four still stand._

_Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower. Great knights both, perishing for the likes of a northern woman and her…son._

While both men were sorely missed, their death’s had done little to harm the crown’s relations with the Great Houses. Jaime Lannister, on the other hand, was casting a large shadow, even in death.

Elia had always liked Jaime. They had met when they were children, as her parents hoped for a match between House Martell and House Lannister. He hadn’t been interested in such things, but he was energetic and loud, a true lion cub who had won Elia’s affection even then. He was much the same when he became a Kingsguard, and their rapport had made Rhaegar pay Jaime more mind than he might have otherwise. At least, until the Rebellion.

Jaime had begged Rhaegar to allow him to accompany the prince and his host north. Her husband had been adamant, however, that a good man remain near his wife and children. “Besides, my father desires you to remain close, for fear of your father,” Jaime had recounted Rhaegar’s words. “Be patient, ser. Whatever happens, change is coming, and the royal family must be made safe for when it does.”

No one knew when Rhaegar had decided on his course of action. Not even the men he marched with against the rebels. There were some who whispered that it was made in the moment, gambling on the royalist concerns over Aerys and the rebel fears of the battle and its repercussions. Reportedly, Lyanna Stark had written to her brother, urging him not to fight the man she loved. If so, it had worked.

Whatever the circumstances, the Usurper fell and Rhaegar made his intentions known. He had thought that his forces could move swift enough to reach the capital before word spread, and that even if it did, that no one would harm his wife or children for his father. He was wrong on both counts, and thousands had payed the price.

_With Jaime being the first to do so,_ Elia thought sadly. _A friend and protector, slain protecting us. Protecting the children._

The well-being of Aegon and Rhaenys was of paramount importance, her husband had decreed. Rhaegar had doubled the normal number of guards assigned to the royal family, and Lewyn and Ser Barristan had been tasked with guarding them day and night. They had argued against leaving the king with no Kingsguard around him, but he would not be gainsaid. The return of Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor had ended the debate, as there was now a knight for both children, Elia, and Rhaegar himself.

At that moment, she heard a voice call her name from her bedchambers. Only one man would be allowed in without Lewyn informing her. She turned and reentered her rooms, unsurprised to find her husband and uncle waiting.

The latter acted much the same as before the war. He was gentler with her and the children, curbing his tongue and manner more than before, but Prince Lewyn remained a fierce and good man, and was one of the few that Rhaegar trusted with Elia and her children. _Just as well, else what good are the Kingsguard?_

Rhaegar’s sad air had only grown in recent days. His mother, his Kingsguard, the friends and companions from days past, it was enough to overwhelm anyone, yet he seemed to endure it. He seemed wan as he sat by the bed, though he smiled as Elia joined him. “Seeing to the children again?”

“Your brother is proud, and your daughter fierce,” Elia reminded him, “they’ve fought before and they will do so again. I only hope they learn to do it _away_ from Aegon and Daenerys, not next to them.”

Her husband sighed. “It’s to be expected. Do not be troubled, they will learn to get along. Give it time.”

Elia nodded. Then she glanced away. _If I am to speak on it, it must be now, and I must not mince words._ “There is one thing they do seem to agree on. Your son.”

_His_ son. Not hers, not theirs. _His_. And Rhaegar knew well whom she spoke of.

“Jon was born after the war was already over. He cannot be blamed for what came before him.”

“Perhaps not,” Elia conceded, “but that may not matter. The sooner he is out of sight the better. Some might suggest the Faith, but the Sept of Baelor is too close. Perhaps the Citadel or-”

“No.”

Rhaegar’s voice was rarely hard with anyone, especially with Elia, but it was so now. Lewyn glanced between the two, concern on his face. Her husband continued in the iron tones of a king.

“As I said, the boy bears no blame. And he will not be punished for the actions Lyanna and I took.” He looked her in the eye then, amethyst irises alive with a strange light. _I’ve seen such a look before, in a prince barely a boy, and a king who thought himself a dragon._

She must have paled or done something to give herself away, for Lewyn spoke then. “Your Grace, I must ask that you remember the queen’s recent ordeals. Do not let your anger at others spill onto her, as you would seek to prevent happening to the boy.”

Rhaegar turned to glare at the Dornish prince, then sighed and looked down, the hardness draining out of him. He sighed. “Yes, you are right. Lewyn. Allow me to apologize, to you and to your niece.” He turned to look at Elia again, fire gone from his eyes. “I am sorry, my queen. That was unwarranted, and unbecoming of a king.”

“You- you are of course forgiven, Your Grace.” Elia bowed her head as she said so. Then she looked at him once more. “Forgive me for asking after it once more, but what do you intend for your son?”

Rhaegar’s face grew stern than, though it was not directed at her. “Jon is my son, and that makes him blood of the dragon, whatever anyone might say. I have ordered the Hand of the King to prepare a royal decree of legitimization, recognizing him as Prince Jon, of House Targaryen.”

_Prince? He shall be made a royal child?_ Elia couldn’t stop the protest leaving from leaving her lips. “But what of our son and daugh-”

“Do not fear, Elia,” Rhaegar said in soothing tones, his words having the opposite effect, “Jon will come after them or any other child we might have in the line of succession.”

Her husband looked to Lewyn then. “By keeping him close, we can help guarantee his safety, and shield him from attacks like that in Dorne. Also, showing such generosity to House Stark will help keep the North in the fold, and help soothe the fears of the other rebel houses.”

“That may be, Your Grace,” Lewyn allowed, “but even so, the boy is not a Stark. A bastard-born nephew may not be the shield you hope it to be.”

Rhaegar turned to look at Lewyn, irritation plain on his face. “Yes, which is why Lord Stark and I have been discussing the best way to ensure the safety of the boy and House Stark’s loyalty. We have come to an agreement, one which will ensure that the peace will endure.”

“How?” Elia asked, still shocked at the swift nature of Rhaegar’s decisions.

Rhaegar turned. “I’m afraid I cannot say for now. The nature of these dealings demands that I share them only with those who are necessary for its success. If even a whisper of it comes out, it will threaten everything.”

_He is wary of Lewyn,_ Elia realized, _and possibly of me. Is it because of what happened at the tower?_

Lewyn had told her what Ser Arthur had said of the battle. The men who’d attacked had been garbed as Dornishman and named themselves loyal to the king. “But they used a direct assault, rather than ambush the men outside the tower,” Lewyn had told her, “and for Dornishmen, there were no dark skin or spears to be seen. Tell me, niece, does that sound like a Dornish party to you?

It had not, and both Ser Arthur and Stark had apparently thought the same. Whoever the men served, they had at the least wished to avoid being detected by any nearby Dornishmen. Lewyn thought it may have been an attempt to exact revenge on Rhaegar in the name of Aerys or Viserys. It was even possible that the one who ordered the attack had sought to drive a wedge between the Iron Throne and Dorne.

_And if so, then they have succeeded at least in part._

Her husband was speaking to Lewyn. “You may leave us, ser.”

“Your Grace.” Her uncle bowed, gave her a quick smile, then turned and walked to the hallway door. Once he was gone Rhaegar turned to Elia again.

“Elia, I know this must be hard. But House Targaryen must not be allowed to fracture. That is why the boy must stay.”

Elia began to speak, then hesitated. Viserys and Rhaenys had both made their thoughts on the boy clear. Granted they were both children, but there was no way of saying how they would come to view Rhaegar’s son. How Aegon and Daenerys might come to view their kinsman was even less certain, owing to their age.

_It would be so much easier if the boy was sent away, even if Rhaegar still provided for him. Yet he seems determined to take this path. Where does that leave me, and our children?_

Elia Martell nodded her head. “I will not pretend I am not confused, Rhaegar, or concerned. But I will support your decision, for the children.”

Rhaegar smiled to hear that. She doubted he heard what she left unsaid.

_Targaryen or Stark, Snow or Sand, this boy will mean discord, whatever you might think. But I will always protect_ our _children._

_For I am, and will always remain, unbroken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter set at the end of the Rebellion. The next will take us to the Greyjoy rebellion, where we will explore more developments in this Westeros.
> 
> See y'all next time.


	7. The Road to the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We come to the Greyjoy Rebellion, where things are both different and similar. Two princes journey in a wood on the road to the Rock.

** Jon **

“It’s broken! Father’s going to be so mad!”

“You were the one who said it was strong enough, Egg!”

Jon sighed and looked at the dagger with dismay. The fine, carved wood had snapped midway up the blade, making it a mere half-foot long. The blade’s end was in his brother’s left hand, the handle in the other. Egg was more upset than he was, even though it was Jon’s blade he was holding.

“Maybe we could make another,” Egg said plaintively, “then no one will know what hap-“

“I can’t make one, can you?” Jon was still scanning the wood around them, making sure no one was here, that no one had seen. They had snuck from the encampment and guards to play with the dagger. If they were found alone with the broken dagger by anyone from the camp, Ser Arthur would belt them like he always threatened to.

Egg was still talking. He always did that when he was nervous. _A king is supposed to talk a lot, this must be good practice._

“I’m not saying _we_ make it, just find someone who can and get _them_ to do it!”

Jon thought about it. “Who? And what will we give them?”

“I’m the prince,” Egg said confidently, “everyone knows a prince always pays his debts.”

“I thought that was a Lannister.”

“If they do it, then princes should too.” Egg held the two dagger pieces out to Jon. When he took them, his brother turned to face the woods, the setting sun lighting the trees around them. “Father said the city is close. We can be back before the sun comes up, and no one will know.”

 _Egg seems excited, when he was scared a moment ago._ Jon still felt nervous as he glanced back towards their father’s camp. _Maybe we should just go back. Father might not be so mad. Egg and I could just tell the truth and he would…_

Jon’s mind stopped along that trek as Egg turned and faced him. “Well, are you coming or not, Jon?

 _He’ll go without me if he has to._ Jon couldn’t go back and tell Father that he had let Egg wander off alone. Father would be madder than if they told the truth. And people would only be louder when they whispered cruel things about him.

Jon shook his head, but began walking after his brother.

Egg was always like this- looking for mischief, asking for trouble when there was none close at hand. “The crown prince is bold as a dragon”, courtiers would say with affection, “and fierce besides.” Father would oft agree, saving his praise for when the family came together for meals or journeys.

Aegon was his brother’s proper name, but he insisted that he be called Egg by his family. _He fancies he’s the first Egg, wandering into danger with Duncan the Tall._ Jon, Egg's sister, and their aunt were the only people who did so. Father and Egg’s mother couldn’t do it, though they tried. Viserys didn’t even try that much, scorning the nickname much as he scorned most things.

The two boys kept walking west. _The woods are pretty,_ Jon thought. _The sun makes the trees into gold, and the birds are lovely singers._ People often spoke of the beauty of the westerlands, and Jon could see why. Their shoes were covered in dust and mud, so much so Jon wondered if they would make it to Lannisport in one piece.

They had been fine when they first came out here. Egg had convinced Jon to grab the dagger form the saddlebag on his horse, then the two had snuck around the wagon they had been resting in earlier and quietly run into the tree line not ten feet away. No one, not even the Kingsguard, had noticed them leave. Egg had still been laughing when the wooden blade had snapped when he swung it against an oak’s trunk.

Now, here they were, wandering in a western wood, looking for a city near as big as King’s Landing. It seemed nice enough, the warm air making Jon a bit tired, wind blowing into their faces as they walked.

Still, the sun was fading, and the golden light was turning into shadows. “Egg, how are we going to find a city in the dark?”

“The city won’t be dark,” Egg said confidently, “all the people and ships need light even when the sun is down. The city will light the way.”

That made some sense to Jon. Yet that didn’t dispel all of the doubts lingering in his head. “But what if the reavers find us before we get there? Ser Arthur-”

Egg spun around to glare at Jon. “If we act scared of ironmen, then they win! We’re blood of the dragon, we can’t be scared of krakens or their like, especially when they’re causing trouble!”

That was why they were here. Father had told them that he and the men at court had to go west, to stop the ironmen from reaving and pillaging. Egg had Jon had both insisted they come, and their father had agreed. The queen was upset that they were going, while Rhaenys and Daenerys were upset that they were not allowed to come too.

“The ironmen are strong and savage,” Father had told them, “and more cunning then many at court care to admit. You are both too important to risk being taken, so you must always stay close. Understand?”

Jon had not understood. Yes, Egg was certainly important, but most at court did not seem to think that _he_ was. _Northern bastard, wolf brat._ Those were among the least cruel whispers Jon had heard, and he knew that they had to do with his mother and father. She was dead, though, and father refused to speak of her to him.

He knew better than to ask his father about the whispers. His sister had said as much when he asked her once. “He’s a king, and kings have a great deal to do. Do you really wish to trouble Father with gossip he likely couldn’t care about in the least?”

So the whispers stayed just that. And Jon kept moving.

He was suddenly shaken from his thoughts. More, he was jolted out of them. By Egg’s elbow hitting his stomach.

Jon gasped and clutched at his stomach, bending over as he did. He glanced up to glare at Egg, who was still facing away from him. _Did he even notice me walking?_

“Egg, why did you stop?” He growled.

“What’s that sound?”

Jon lifted his head and glanced about. All he heard was the wind and the trees it was shaking. He took a breath and turned his head to the side, blocking the breeze from his left ear.

At first, nothing. Then a twig snapped, from their left. He glanced that way, then looked at his brother. Egg seemed more alert than scared, hands balled into fists as he looked in the same direction. He turned towards Jon. “What do you think it is?”

“Maybe it’s nothing. Wood snaps without help sometimes.”

“Maybe. Or its men, or wild beasts.” Egg looked as serious as Father, which seemed impossible. Jon looked at him, then glanced back at the wood as another twig snapped.

Egg grabbed his hand. “We turn around and start running. Find a tree to climb, or something to fight with.”

At that a voice called from the woods, from where the snapping had come from. “You will not go far, lads! Best give yourselves up now and spare us the trouble!”

 _That voice has an accent._ Jon knew all the ways southerners talked, and this was not any of them. For all that, it sounded familiar, though he could not place why.

Egg shouted back, “You leave us be! We are princes of the royal blood and on the way to Lannisport!”

“Lannisport?” The voice was amused, the man behind it no doubt smiling. “You are a way off from there. And princes, out here, all alone? Only a fool would believe that.”

“It’s true!” Jon was still peering through the trees, looking for the speaker, but anger bade him speak. “We are the king’s sons! Now tell us who you are!”

“Who I am? What does that matter?” The voice was quieter now, so much so that Jon could barely hear it. “I am not the one you need concern yourself with.”

Jon was opening his mouth to ask why when he was grabbed from behind and yanked backward. He had time to let out a quick yelp of surprise when a hand came over his mouth. It was covered by leather, a glove muffling the sound it would have made. He heard a yell as just before him a man in a dark cloak seized Egg, covering his mouth much as the other did to Jon.

Terror gripped him as he glanced at his brother. _Who are they? What do they want? Why did we come out here? What do I do?_

The questions vanished as a third man emerged from where the voice had come from. Lanky, pale brown hair framed a face with sharp features. Blue eyes glanced between Egg and Jon, amusement evident in them. He was a thin man, with a lean frame that was covered in fur and leather. He had a silver buckle on his belt, obscured as it was by a large cloak, black as coal.

Egg had managed to get his mouth free from his captor. “What are you doing here?! Jon, did you tell him we were going?”

“No! Why would I?!” Jon glared as the man started chuckling. “Why are you here, uncle?”

“Who better to track little dragons than a direwolf?” Benjen Stark smiled as the princelings struggled in the arms of the other men. “Jory, you and Ed let the lads go.” The men holding Jon and Egg quickly did so. Jon turned to glare at the young Cassel, who was clearly struggling not to laugh at the princes.

“That’s the wrong cloak!” Egg was muttering as he eyed Jon’s uncle. “Kingsguard are supposed to wear white. If you’d been dressed proper, we’d have seen you.”

“Yes. Which is why I did _not_ dress proper.” Benjen spoke slowly, as if talking to a fool. “The king told me to change my cloak for this task. Though I doubt he expected you to wander so far.”

“He knew we were gone?” _Of course he did,_ Jon realized, _Father always knows_. “When did you-”

“About five minutes after you left. You boys may be small enough to get around unseen, but you left a trail as obvious as an ox in a hurry.” Benjen had stopped laughing but was still smiling at the boys. “Now then, there’s a certain king who’d like a word.”

Egg and Jon glanced at each other, dismay shared between them. Jon looked at the broken dagger in his belt. “Uh, uncle, we wanted t-”

“We heard that thing snap when it hit the oak’s trunk. Don’t worry, I’m sure your father will forgive you if you beg for mercy.” Jory and the other laughed at that, though Jon thought he saw some of his uncle’s humor fade at that.

“Viserys says dragons never beg,” Egg pointed out, “or kneel or cry. Or anything like that.”

“Your uncle still has much to learn, as do you.” The knight turned. “Now let’s go. Don’t make me tell the lads here to pick you up and carry you.”

Jon and Egg glared at the northman before walking after him. The others came after them, Jory fiddling with something in his cloak. Jon heard a scrapping sound, then new light illuminated the wood around them as the wood in Cassel’s hand alit. The other one held out a torch for him to light, adding more warmth to the air around them.

“You two should consider yourselves lucky,” Benjen drawled as they walked through the wood. “Could’ve been ironborn, here to snatch you up and carry you to the sea as prizes. Or bandits, thinking you nothing more than peasants they could sell to slavers.”

Benjen was always saying things like that, trying to scare Jon and whoever was near him at the time. He had been in King’s Landing since Jon was but a babe, a guest of the king. Some at court had frowned at his closeness to the royal family, but Father had paid it no mind. _He wanted me to know the Starks, and Uncle Benjen was the only one in the south_.

Benjen had won a knighthood while serving the crown, fighting against some stormlords who had tried to rebel against the king. Then, at the age of twenty-and-two, he had become the newest knight to the Kingsguard, the first of House Stark to ever do so. He had been tasked since his arrival at court with protecting Jon, and the white cloak had proven how much Jon’s father trusted his uncle to do so.

 _He is good to me, and a friend to all. I hope the others are much the same, but I still don’t know any of the others_.

There was Lord Eddard, of course, and his wife, the Lady Tully. They had the two children, a boy and a girl. _Robb and Sansa, isn’t that their names?_ Jon asked Benjen if they were, and his uncle assured him that was so.

“And more besides, if the gods are good.” Benjen sighed, his thoughts clearly with family. “Cat was with child last I heard, due any day now if I remember right.” He shook his head and ruffled Jon’s hair. “But those aren’t things you should worry over. Here we are, off to war, and you want to ask after your kinsman. You definitely have your mother’s blood, Jon.”

“Mother said we wouldn’t see any fighting,” Egg broke in, “but I hope she’s wrong. We could help plan the fighting, or squire for some great knights like Ser Arthur of Uncle Lewyn, maybe ev-”

“Hold there, little dragon. I’ll not lie, the king doesn’t want you boys near any fighting either, but one never knows how wars go. Men plan for all sorts of things, but the gods love to smash those plans apart.”

Benjen grimaced as light began shining through the trees in front of them. “Now, enough of that talk. We’re here, and you’d best have your story straight.”

The encampment was much as Jon and Egg had left it. There was an order to it, the tents arrayed in a rough circle, with men patrolling its borders. In the center sat a large pavilion, its read and black pattern made striking by the torchlight around it. Jon gulped as he gazed at that tent. _What will he do when he sees the dagger?_

Egg’s hand was gripping his, staring up at the tent. “Don’t worry, Jon. We’re dragons too, he will not forget that, and we cannot either.”

Jon smiled nervously at his older brother. “Right, thanks Egg.”

Benjen entered the pavilion before them. After a few minutes a familiar voice called out, “Enter, both of you!” The two brothers glanced at each other once again, then walked in, side-by-side.

A desk was placed in the center of it all, around which several figures were clustered. A bed lay not far beyond, with scrolls and books laid about the place. The ground was covered in furs, grass sticking out where there were none. Braziers filled the room, the silk allowing the smoke to leave but keeping the heat. _It feels like a dragon might like it in here._

Standing around the tents interior were four men. Three wore the enameled armor and white cloaks of the Kingsguard, while the fourth had just the latter to mark his station. Benjen had been quick to discard his black cloak, the milk white fabric clashing with his dark hair.

The others were known to Jon by the sigils on their shields. Nearest to them, at the entrance, was a knight with three bronze spearheads on his shield. Pale eyes looked Jon and Egg over as they passed by him _Ser Mandon Moore. The man is quiet, but Lord Arryn insisted that he was a worthy knight._ Jon’s father had accepted him, but there was no love between this Kingsguard and the king he served.

The case was different with the two men flanking the king’s desk. A star fell over the sword on one man’s shield, while a great blade sat upon his shoulder. Ser Arthur Dayne nodded at the princes, though his face was largely hidden by the helm he wore. Opposite him stood a man with three wheat stalks on his shield. Ser Barristan stared in to space, eyes fixed grimly on something only he could see.

Sitting at a desk amidst it all were _two_ dragons, not one. The one facing them was larger, and much the friendlier. Father looked tired, like he often did, his crown on the desk by his hand. He smiled to see the two princes though, the light in his eyes chasing the darkness away.

The other dragon had no smiles for them, only a sneer. “Well, I see the wolf managed to find you.” Viserys flicked his hair back, glancing at the Kingsguard who wore no armor. “I had my doubts, but I suppose you must be good at _something_.” He may have been just fourteen, but the prince could act as pompous as a king when the mood struck him.

“Enough, brother.” Father glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to his sons. “So, I hear you managed to break your only protection while running about in the wood?”

Jon looked at his feet. He reached into his belt and held up the two pieces of dagger for his father to see. Before either of them could speak, though, Viserys snatched them both from his hands.

“Well isn’t this a sorry excuse for a prize?” He glanced at the king. “A pretty thing, but a toy, nothing more. Why call this protection?”

Rhaegar said nothing, but the look he gave the silver prince spoke volumes. “Viserys, against the wishes of everyone else on the matter, you have been allowed to join me and my sons during this journey and the fight that lies beyond it. The least you can do is not speak so in front of your nephews, who are also the children of your brother, the king.”

Viserys bristled but then shifted in his chair as he bowed his head. “Yes, brother.” He turned to Jon and Egg and smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “After all, the _dragons_ must stand together, isn’t that right?”

He stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll find something meaningful to do elsewhere.” With that, the silver prince turned and left the pavilion, haughtiness pouring from him as he did so.

Jon sighed and looked at his father. “Why did he have to come too, Father?”

“Yes, why?” Egg looked angry where Jon was tired. _Even after everything, Egg acts like he has just woken._ “He’s mean to everyone, especially to Jon. Why is he here, going on an adventure with us?”

“This is no adventure, Aegon, this is war.” Their father sighed as he glanced down at his desk. “Viserys is of an age to become a squire, and one of the lords who will be leading our efforts has agreed to make him one.”

Jon and Egg glanced at each other, astonished. _Who would want to take Viserys?_

The king wasn’t done. “Nor is that all. I have received news while you were gone, both good and bad. The latter is that the ironmen have attacked the city we are heading towards. They wreaked much havoc, more than the westerlands have seen in many years.”

“There was a battle? Like during the Rebellion?” Egg was practically hopping with excitement. Jon remained quiet, thoughts going to the people in the city. _I hope not too many people were hurt. Where were the guards, the armies?_ He voiced his last thought, which his father nodded at.

“You are wise to note that, Jon. The men had been deliberately sent away, to make Lannisport a more tempting target.” Rhaegar shifted in his seat. “Once the fleet of ironmen had entered and began burning the ships and raiding the harbor, the Lord of Casterly Rock’s son ordered a chain that had been prepared at the harbor’s mouth be raised, to prevent them from leaving.

 _The Imp?_ Jon wondered. _A great chain? It sounds like something Brandon the Builder would make._

“By the time the ironmen knew what was happening,” his father continued, “Lannister ships had taken position on the other side, and siege engines and archers on the walls attacked the Iron Fleet. Some ironmen tried to fight their way to the gates, but the army returned and pushed them back into the water.”

Egg looked puzzled. “But that sounds like goods news, Father. Why is that bad?”

“Because the ironmen had left a part of their fleet on the sea nearby, and they quickly realized something was wrong. They sailed down and destroyed the Lannister ships, and managed to disable the chain when their men reached one side of the harbor and knocked it loose.”

Rhaegar sighed and turned to look out the pavilion entrance. “A city has suffered great harm, most of our ships nearby are now gone, and the ironmen still have a fleet more powerful than we have yet brought to fight them. That is why it is both bad and good news.”

Egg looked like Mother had just scolded him for sneaking a sweet during lessons. His expression sullen, he kicked at the furs under his feet.

Jon decided he needed a hand. “But there’s still less of them now, right?”

His father looked at him, smiling once more. “Yes, Jon, there are fewer of them. But they will be warier now, and careful not to be tricked again. We did manage to catch two krakens here, so that is something to be pleased about.”

The king’s smile was gone, but he continued. “Also, we have had good news from your uncle, Jon. The northern ships gathered at the Stony Shore have launched, so soon the Lord of Winterfell will join us in fighting the ironmen. With the Redwyne fleet on its way north, our forces will soon be able to reach the Iron Islands and seize the rebels.”

Jon was happy to hear that but was still thinking on the part about his other uncle. _Uncle Eddard is coming to help? Maybe that means he and Father aren’t angry with each other anymore. Maybe he can visit King’s Landing._

“Enough of this.” Jon left his thoughts as Rhaegar shook his head. “Barristan, Benjen, see them to their tent. We arrive in Lannisport tomorrow, and they’ll need to be properly rested to face what awaits us there.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Benjen winked at Jon and Egg. “Come along, lads, past time you got to bed and snored a bit.”

“I don’t snore,” Egg muttered as he turned and started walking out of the tent. Barristan followed, his expression still far away.

Jon made to follow alongside Benjen but glanced behind him as he did. His father was staring at the crown on his desk, a haunted look on his face. _Stupid ironmen, stupid rebellion. Look at what it does to Father. It must be very hard being a king._

_Even harder when so many people aren’t as loyal as your family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit longer to write than the others. I wasn't sure who to start with, and what to reveal and when. I decided the simple approach would be a good place to begin, and let the story flow from there.


	8. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knight broods, and watches as the clouds spiral around him.

** Barristan **

The water was as blue as the sky above, the sun casting shadows to the west as it hung on the other side of the city. Lannisport had recently seen a battle, but one would not know if they just looked at the sea. _Some things never change, the seas least of all._

Barristan sighed as he turned and walked from the water’s edge. The wall next to him was intact, though the flames had marred it with soot and ash, while the chain it had held up had since been broken. Still, the walls of Lannisport had held strong, proving decisive in the battle that had taken place. Were it not for the foresight of some of the ironmen the Lannister plan likely would have succeeded, ending the iron fleet and leaving the way to Pyke open for the Redwyne ships and royal forces.

_If only. A game for fools if ever there was one. The lions may have failed in their greatest desire, but the battle still bought us time, and more besides._

That was what Barristan told himself as he walked through streets marred by debris and devastation. Most of the city had seem some fighting, with the areas where the ironmen had fought to get at the harbor chain seeing the fiercest and most devastating of it. Now the only men to be seen were soldiers, most of them in Lannister garb, the laughter and confidence they had once carried nowhere to be found. _Battle will do that to a man, especially a man who hasn’t seen one before._

“Ser! Ser, a moment!”

The Kingsguard turned to see one of the Lannister men walking up to him. _Man is generous, beneath the armor this one can’t be older than six-and-ten._ Behind him two others were trailing, neither with the first’s enthusiasm.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ser,” the young man spoke quickly, as if the words might escape him if they weren’t used, “but we was wondering why you came on out here, what with the scum cleared out and all.”

Barristan looked the Lannister soldier up and down. He was not short or tall, and from the weigh the armor hung on him was more thin than thick. Brown curls stuck to his head, sweat shining on his brown, while his half-helm kept the rest hidden from view. Brown eyes caught his and held the gaze, eagerness and awe apparent.

 _He acts as if he is meeting a hero._ Half the kingdoms thought Barristan was just that, while the other saw him in a very different light. He, for one, thought the second half had more the right of it.

He decided to be quick about it. “Lord Tywin advised that someone should inspect the places where the fighting occurred, to see if anything could be learned. The king saw fit to send me here.”

“I told you it was the king’s business, you damn fool.” One of the two men shuffling their feet behind the young one finally spoke up. “Pardon, ser, the lad insisted we know your purpose here. I think Harry here has a mind to kill the kraken king and be made a knight of-”

“Shut the fuck up, Daven!” The young man rounded on his fellow, then turned red as he turned back to Barristan. “Oh, that, uh-”

“I am as much a man as you, lad, not like to faint at hearing you curse.” Barristan scanned the three. “Did you fight here?”

“I did!” Harry practically bounced as he continued. “I was in the first wave of the army when we got back, Seven strike me if I lie! I fought men and I- I even killed one, some brute with a scythe on his shield-”

“Is that so?” Barristan noticed the lad had faltered a moment while speaking. Harry realized the knight had noticed and hesitated before speaking again. “It weren’t how I thought it’d be, ser. Does- does it get easier?”

 _Young indeed, no matter what this one’s seen or done._ “I have found it does, lad. Whether that is a blessing or a curse, though, I cannot say.” The knight turned to the side. “Now I need to return to the keep. Keep your blades and wits sharp, men, and know that the king will hear of you.”

He didn’t wait to see how they reacted, striding forward to resume his path.

Before much longer, he arrived at the keep that the Lannister’s of Lannisport called home. The wall stood forty feet high, with six round towers standing out at points. It was no Casterly Rock or Red Keep, but the large stone keep was sturdy and formidable, and had only fallen in the past when its garrison had been neglected. _Tywin Lannister knew that, which makes his son’s gamble even more surprising._

As he walked under the portcullis he noted the royal men walking along the walls. Most of the Lannister host remained in the city or the Rock, while the troops from the crownlands had joined them in the former. The rivermen that had arrived had elected to remain apart, setting camp beyond the walls and camps, apart from all the others. A foolish choice, most agreed, leaving the Tully’s and their bannermen vulnerable to attack.

_They think it wiser to risk the kraken’s vengeance than dwell in the lion’s den. If I were among them, I might think that wisdom._

Barristan found the main hall devoid of lords when he entered. The few that had remained when the army left had since moved to the Rock for shelter, while the king and the prominent lords held their meetings in the privacy of the rooms beyond the hall. The hearths were rarely lit here, save for when a new batch of soldiers arrived, and their commander was welcomed by both dragon and lion.

The knight quickly strode along the hall, his destination in the chambers above. But as he reached the passage leading to them he realized that the hall was not abandoned after all. Whispers were echoing from the far end, where the dais loomed above the main floor.

Barristan stopped for a moment, pondering his options, when a voice raised to address him. “Barristan come talk with us, please!” The speaker rose from behind his father’s seat to look at him, purple eyes meeting the knight’s blue. _Not as dark as his father’s, but Valyrian all the same._

As was everything else about him. Prince Aegon Targaryen boasted the traditional looks of his house, silver locks framing a face that any mother would be overjoyed for their child to possess. There was almost always a smile on it, and the words that came from it managed to amuse or charm most it came across. He tunic was set in the black and red of Targaryen, with the three-headed dragon rearing across his torso. He wore no jewelry save for a thin golden chain around his neck and carried a finely carved wooden dagger that he acted as if were made of live steel, and just as dangerous. The king and his retainers knew better, and there was always at least one Kingsguard with the prince. _Yet I don’t see one now. Where in the hells is Moore or Stark?_

Barristan shook himself. The princeling had addressed him, and no doubt expected a response.

“My prince, His Grace and I have told you a hundred times, you are to address me as ser,” Barristan intoned sternly. He set his face as he did so, hoping to blunt the boy’s confidence and bring him to heed his words.

It had never worked before, and it didn’t work now. “And I keep telling you to call me Egg or Aegon, but you never do. So, Barristan you are.” The silver-haired prince may have been all of seven, but the grin on his face as he uttered those words belonged to a youth twice that age. “There’s too many ser’s always walking around, and ‘the Bold’ sounds too much like the ‘the Bald’ to the ear."

The knight couldn’t help but laugh at that. _He always calls me by name, no matter what his father or I tell him._ If he was being honest with himself, Barristan found that endearing more than frustrating. Like most who met him, Aegon managed to charm and convince him almost too easily. _A good trait for a prince and future king, though not the only one required to rule._

“What he won’t say is he hates it when people don’t listen to him. That’s why he doesn’t listen either.”

Barristan spun to find the source of those words, hand on hilt. Coming around from the other side of the dais was another lad, dark clothing and hair helping to make him blend with the hall’s shadows. _He moves as quietly as a cat. Or a wolf on the hunt._

Prince Jon may have been the king’s son, but any who looked at him would see a Stark, through and through. Dark brown hair that normally hung about his face in locks had seen them cut short before the journey west, while a pale face gave Barristan a cool look. There was wariness in that gaze, though the knight thought he saw a bit of warmth there as well.

It was the eyes that spoke to Jon’s parentage. At first glance they were grey, another Stark trait. But if one looked closely, they’d see they were a much darker shade than any other member of that line. Depending on his mood or the light they could flash violet, becoming like amethysts for a few moments or even longer. Now, though, they remained grey even as Barristan spoke to him.

“Prince’s and kings are supposed to be obeyed, are they not?” The Kingsguard tugged at the cloak that hung from his shoulders. “Any who take on this duty are sworn to obey, and we must remember our vows, like all men who wish to be noble and good.”

Jon’s expression became thoughtful, and he nodded at Barristan’s words. _His brother may have His Grace’s looks, but this one resembles him in his bearing and quiet nature._ Aegon was still grinning, though some of the humor left his face as he glanced over and saw his brother’s sober expression.

Looks aside, the two princes were dressed near identically. The tunics looked the same in color, though Jon was slimmer than his older brother, and the chain around his neck was silver in contrast to Aegon’s gold. The second son also wore a wooden dagger, made of a darker wood than the first’s but otherwise the same. The two blades had been carved in Lannisport upon their arrival, with Aegon insisting that they each get their own rather than just the one like before. “So if one breaks, the other will still be used to keep the two of us safe”, the prince had declared.

The daggers had not been the only things the princes wanted. From meeting the soldiers to seeing where the battle took place, from fighting an ironman to speaking with Lord Tywin’s son, the list went on and on. And so far, their requests had been indulged, the duel being the exception.

Apparently, that was still on Aegon’s mind. “Father is talking with one of the Greyjoy’s right now!” The prince’s face had grown darker, a flush creeping into his face as indignation came into his voice. “He wouldn’t let us talk to him or even see him! Barristan, how are we supposed to fight the enemy if we don’t know what they look like? Why can’t we see him or the other one or any of the other prisoners?!”

“My prince, you’re Father has given strict orders that all must obey, including you,” Barristan said sternly, all humor gone from his voice. _No good will come from princes questioning kings, even little princes._ “Wars are won as often by subtlety as strength and keeping your presence unknown gives us an advantage.”

Aegon subsided a bit at that, the anger burning within fading into a sullen ember. He was clearly not satisfied with that answer, not that Barristan could truly blame him.

It was a half-truth at best. Most at court had not been overly surprised when the king announced his intent to come to Lannisport and oversee the campaign to put down the ironborn rebellion. They had been astonished, though, when he announced his intent to bring the other three sons of House Targaryen with him. The small council had urged the king to not take all his male kin, and certainly not his heir. The queen had insisted much the same.

Now they were here, though, and Rhaegar wanted the ironborn to know as little of the princes as could be helped. Frankly Barristan doubted much could be done in a city the size of Lannisport, but the king had made his decision, and it was his duty to see it done.

That thought took him to the reason he had returned. “Speaking of which, where is the ser tasked with looking after you? I can’t imagine Ser Arthur will be pleased to hear that he left the two of you hear like this aft-”

“Rest easy, brother. I was never far.”

Barristan turned towards the door he had intended to go through. Benjen Stark was emerging from beyond, tugging on his belt as he did so. Seeing the older man’s frown, he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “I told the lads to try not to get killed while I found a privy. Thought they should at least learn to do that much.”

“A royal order is just that, Benjen. _An order._ ”

The young man shrugged at that. “I certainly won’t tell anyone. What of you lot?”

“I won’t,” Jon quickly spoke up, with Aegon nodding in agreement. The boy’s face had lost all its seriousness, beaming at his uncle, who grinned back at him. The prince turned to look at Barristan. “Ser, please don’t make Ser Arthur get made at Benjen. No one was hurt or anything.”

Barristan frowned at Jon, then glanced at Aegon, who was glaring at him with everything he had. He sighed and turned towards Benjen once more. “This once, and only because two princes wish it. Is the king still meeting the prisoner?”

Benjen’s smile left at that. “No, he was taken back to the dungeons. Last I checked, His Grace was conferring with Lannister and the other commanders.”

“Then I will join them.” Barristan turned towards the princes. “Stay close to this one until someone relieves him.” Not waiting for a response, he stepped past Stark and began walking down the passage to the chambers beyond.

After climbing three flights of stairs and a few turns he reached the local lord’s chambers, occupied by the king for the present time. Moore stood outside, greeting Barristan with a nod as he approached. “You missed the kraken.”

“Ser Benjen told me as much. Still, I doubt I missed much.”

“True enough.” Moore rolled his eyes as he spoke. “The man is large and fierce, but clearly lacks any wits the Greyjoy’s might have. Hard to believe his brother gave him such a large command. Nothing to say, even if he was in a mood to say it, which he was not.”

“Hmm,” Barristan nodded as he moved past the knight and opened the door.

The sight that greeted him was in many ways familiar. The king sat at the head of a table, maps and papers strewn about its surface. Rhaegar looked much as he had when he’d first assumed the throne, though sometimes appeared weary from the challenges his reign had faced. He glanced at Barristan as he entered, then turned back towards the table. The Lord-Commander stood behind him, Dawn at his back as always. Arthur nodded at his sworn brother, who returned the gesture. Than Barristan silently took his place behind the king, scanning the men sitting around the table.

The only other small council member present was Lord Connington, his stern face nodding at Barristan as their eyes met. Dressed in the red and white of his house, griffins reared upon his chest, while his sword remained by his side. While Barristan was always wary of men carrying steel so near the king, he was not concerned about Connington. He was still young, but the last seven years had taught the Lord of Griffin’s Roost much, and his loyalty to the king was unquestionable.

Lord Tywin was another matter entirely. The Lord of Casterly Rock wore the red and gold of Lannister, lions clasping his cloak to his armor. He did not stay in the city, preferring to stay with the bulk of the Lannister forces in Casterly Rock. Arthur Dayne had not been pleased by that, but the king had allowed it. “To command Lord Tywin to abandon his home would be unwise and unfriendly, especially as the Rock is so close anyway.”

Tywin was speaking now, from a seat at the opposite end of the table from the king. “By the sound of it, the Greyjoy’s strength has clearly been exaggerated. Once the Arbor fleet arrives, the army should be made ready and sail for the Iron Islands as soon as possible.”

“The sooner they come under attack, the sooner the ironmen fall into line and we can have Lord Greyjoy’s head and be done with it,” spoke the youth sitting to Tywin’s left.

 Tyrion Lannister cut a strange figure, his chest barely reaching the tabletop. His blonde hair hung around his face, from which two mismatched eyes found Barristan. Even now, the young dwarf could make Barristan uneasy. Half the time his expression mirrored his father’s, but it lacked the same hardness. In more pleasant settings the dwarf was always quick to make a jest, a quality that many in the camp had found disarming. The Kingsguard were among the few who were not affected by it, remaining watchful against the heir of Casterly Rock.

 Still, the lad was clearly no fool. His decisions regarding the ironborn had led to a victory that had bought the royal forces time to gather and two of Balon Greyjoy’s brothers. The Iron Fleet was still at large, but less forty warships and its commander, it was thought unlikely that they would attempt another strike anytime soon.

“That is unlikely to deter them, and more like to inspire them to further rebellion,” the king replied, eyes going to the papers strewn across the table. “We need a more lasting solution to the ironborn, not just a bandage that can be ripped away in a generation. This _must_ have a different ending than the wars that have come before.”

 _I wonder what makes him think that,_ Barristan thought as he took his place behind the king, _is it concern for the ironborn smallfolk, or our own men? Or something else entirely?_

The other two men had arrived from the Reach, coming ahead of the Redwyne fleet to command the Tyrell forces that had arrived two days past. Lord Tarly held that command and had been diligent in finding accommodations for his troops and fortifying the city against another attack.

The Lord of Horn Hill was in armor, the archer of Tarly placed over his heart. His hair was thinning, his face twisted into a scowl as he scanned the maps on the table before. He sat to the king’s left, with his future liege lord taking the place to his right.

Willas Tyrell was the youngest person there, a mere six-and-ten years. Lord Tywin had wondered at whether the youth was prepared for such responsibilities, but Tarly had insisted. “We all have to start somewhere, after all. Besides, Lord Tyrell thought this would make up for the leg the lad broke last month.”

Whatever the case, Willas’ status in the Tyrell forces and as heir to Highgarden had been enough to sway the king, much the same as it had with Tyrion. Their age and rank were all the two youths had in common, that and sharp minds they had both demonstrated so far.

To look at, the two were a study in contrasts, completely different from one another. Where the Imp was stunted and misshapen, Willas was tall and fair, with a face to swoon over and a slim body that was likely girded by muscle. Tyrell still had a limp, owing to the leg he’d broken tilting against Oberyn Martell, but he would be walking normally in a week or so, according to the castle maester.

The lad was speaking now. “The Arbor fleet should arrive by week’s end, if that. If Stark and Tully can arrive here two weeks after that, we can sail for the Iron Islands before the storms off Cape Wrath cross the Reach and turn northwards.”

“If all goes as hoped, which it never does during war.” The king sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, my lords. That will be all for now.”

The seated lords stood at the dismissal, bowing before they all headed out towards the main hall. As soon as the door closed, Rhaegar turned to look at Barristan. “Was there anything of value discovered during your search, ser?”

“No, Your Grace.” Barristan shifted uncomfortably, well aware of his failure to give the king his desire. “The battlefield is just that, but I’m afraid there was nothing to be learned. That said, the Lannister’s have been told that the walls need reinforcing in the center-west section.”

Rhaegar smiled at that, though weariness was apparent in his features. “Thank you, Barristan.” His face grew lighter as a thought struck him. “And what of the boys, did you see them?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Stark was looking after them in the main hall.” The king’s face dropped a little like that, though most would not have noticed.

It had always been so. Stark’s presence in King’s Landing, and his eventual induction into the Kingsguard, had been seen by many as an attempt to conciliate the North while gaining a loyal protector for the king’s younger son. While the latter had proven true, the former had not. Indeed, at the time the taking of the only male heir Eddard Stark possessed had generated sullenness and outrage from the northmen.

 _One man’s guard is another man’s hostage._ The thought brought Jaime Lannister to mind, turning his mind to darker places, where a king died and loyalty was shattered.

“Ser?”

Barristan shook himself as he focused on Rhaegar again. The king looked concerned, worry on his face. _Damn it, I swore he wouldn’t see me like that again._ “Apologies, Your Grace. What did you ask me?”

Rhaegar still looked concerned, but thankfully did not press the issue. “Was Viserys here when you got back?”

“No. I believe he left this morning to visit the Rock again.”

“Good.” The king’s face became serious again. “Once the ironborn are brought to heel, the work of restoring House Targaryen’s ties to the great houses begins.”

Barristan shifted at his thoughts turned to the lords who head just left. “Mace Tyrell is not a man to send his heir into a war, no matter what Tarly might say. That begs the question, why is Willas here?”

“Any number of reasons.” Arthur spoke for the first time. “Whatever they might be, the lad is clever enough for one his age, and may be made a friend of the crown.”

“Perhaps.” Rhaegar turned towards Barristan. “Much can change during a war, though. So we must do our best to keep things well in hand.”

The king stood, motioning for the Kingsguard to follow him. They moved through the door and began the trek back to the main hall.

The hall was empty when they arrived. Stark and the princes were gone, and the lords had not lingered, each going on to see to this business or that. The king sighed as he scanned the place. “This place is so quiet now. Remember the tourney, Arthur? How the hall was full to bursting, laughter and celebration all around?”

“It’s not like that now. Joy is one of war’s first casualties.”

“And one of victories first children, Rhaegar.” Arthur tone was soft, speaking to the friend, not the king. “This rebellion will be defeated, and then we can start rebuilding. Remember what you promised the council. And the children, and her.”

Barristan looked sharply at the Lord-Commander. _Is he speaking of the queen?_ Somehow, he doubted it.

Rhaegar shook himself, nodding at Arthur’s words. “I won’t forget, old friend.” He glanced at Barristan. “None of us will. Remember our oath. That the kingdoms may know peace.”

“My sword is yours, Your Grace.” Barristan bowed as he said the words, banishing the dark thoughts from his head.

_The Kingsguard has a simple role. Serve, obey, protect, at all costs. I will not fail in any of them._

_Not again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!
> 
> Sorry for the long break, I had a lot of stuff to deal with that kept me from writing. I expect to start writing for this fic regularly again, barring something suddenly coming up.
> 
> Thanks for the patience. I'll keep you posted on any new developments.


	9. The Gathering

** Eddard **

The Lord of Winterfell sighed as the ship pushed through the waters ahead of him. The seas had been calm since they had left Seagard, and the winds had been steady from the northeast, helping to push them towards their destination.

_The gods are with us. They helped keep the krakens at bay, and now hasten us toward Lannisport._

Ned turned to look at his companion. “Ten days from Seagard to Lannisport. That must be as fast as any fleet before us.”

“Afraid not, lad,” his father-by-marriage replied, “fastest fleet made the trip in half that time. And the fastest lone ship managed it in just under three days. Damn fools competing for glory or coin, can’t recall which.”

Hoster Tully looked completely at ease on the deck of the ship. Where Ned still took days to become used to the constant shift o and tug of the sea, the Lord of Riverrun acted as if he were born to sail. _I suppose the men of the riverlands are used to being on the water, almost as much as the ironborn._

Hoster was tall, with auburn hair that was streaked with gray. He had gained weight since the Rebellion, but his size let him bear it well. His armor was plain, decorated only by the red and blue of House Tully, with the silver trout leaping across his chest. Unlike most of the men, he had insisted on dressing for battle every day of the voyage, warier of the iron fleet than of falling into the sea. So far, that caution had proven unneeded.

Ned had collected thirty longships and three war galleys from the north’s western lords before sailing from Barrowton. He had feared that the ironborn might catch them at sea if they did not move swift enough, but there had been no sign of them until they reached the Cape of Eagles. At least a dozen villages had been raided north of Seagard alone, though the town and castle were untouched, which had surprised Lord Jason. “When they were first sighted, we thought they were here to attack the castle. Why else bring such a large force? But they spread out and ravaged the rest of the coast, burning and killing everything that hadn’t already fled.”

They had still been waiting for the Tully ships and men when word came about the battle in the west. Ned suspected the ironborn had decided to save their strength after their defeat. The lords with him had been disgruntled to a man. Why couldn’t the ironborn be as foolish in fighting a war as they were in starting one?

After the combined northern and riverland forces had set sail, they had not seen any hint of the iron fleet or reavers, save for the occasional charred remains of a coastal village as they sailed towards Lannisport. Cause for relief by most, Ned found their absence disquieting. _They must know the royal forces are gathering for an attack. Balon Greyjoy may be an arrogant fool, but he knows how to fight. Why let the enemy come together without trying to stop us?_

Ned voiced the thought to Lord Tully, who shrugged. “Considering how their last attempt at an offensive went, I’d be surprised if they tried it again. Besides, we’re not the only fleet on the way. Perhaps they think it best to strike the greater danger first.”

“Aye, there’s wisdom in that,” Ned acknowledged. He turned to look ahead once more, the seat of House Lannister growing larger as they rode the wind south.

Casterly Rock was said to look like a lion when the sun set into the sea. Ned did not know the truth of that, but at midday it looked like no lion that he had ever seen. Truth be told, it hardly looked like a castle to him. The great rock stood thrice as tall as the Wall and measured two leagues from one end to the other. As they grew closer, Ned recognized more familiar constructs on the great hill- towers and walls, turrets and gates. Still, the Rock looked more like the home of giants the smallfolk claimed used to live there than a proper fortress.

Tully watched it with him as they came to its northern tip. “They say Aegon the Conqueror doubted even dragonflame could have burned the Lannister’s out of that thing. Place is a marvel on the inside, no man can deny that.”

Ned shrugged. “I would take Winterfell over it any day.”

“And I Riverrun, but one can still appreciate other castles. Much like admiring a beautiful woman while you’re wed.”

Ned smiled at that, the jape bringing his thoughts to his wife and children, back in the North. _I hope she is faring well; the letter said the birthing was more difficult than before._

The letter that awaited him at Seagard had been welcome, anxious as Ned was about reaching Lannisport. Luwin reported that the child was healthy by any measure, though a bit on the small side. Their second daughter had been named Arya, the maester wrote, and favored Ned more than Catelyn, their first child to do so. He was glad to hear it, though he hoped Catelyn would not blame herself for not having a son.

He chided himself for the thought. _Don’t be foolish, Cat would never dislike a child, no matter the circumstance. She’s much too kind for that._

“My lords!” A voice called him back from his thoughts. He turned to see the ship’s captain approaching. “We’ll reach the city in an hour. I suggest you get ready for what comes after you get back on land.”

“Good advice.” Hoster glanced at Ned. “After all, this is a reunion as much as a campaign.” He didn’t wait for a reply, striding across the deck and descending to the chambers below. Ned followed, though more slowly than his good-father. Once he reached his cabin he laid on his cot, mind wandering away from the war.

Ned’s thoughts turned towards those he was waiting to see. Benjen had become a man since the Rebellion, claiming a knighthood after the Small Storm uprising four years past. His astonishment at hearing his brother had been named to the Kingsguard had been great, his anger even more so. For all that, Benjen had seemed content in his letters to Winterfell. _Though there’s no knowing whether he was being truthful or just polite._

If he was being honest, Ned doubted the letters were coerced. Benjen could be an ass at first meetings, but he was quick to adapt to new circumstances and to win people over, especially other men. And by the sound of it, King’s Landing had given Benjen much of what he had hoped for: a life of duty and service, serving the kingdoms and doing honor to his house. Ned knew he had hoped to become a man of the Watch before he went to the capital, but none could deny that the Kingsguard was as honorable a brotherhood as the black brother’s were, likely more so. _The royal family carries more importance for the Seven Kingdoms than the Wall ever could, no matter what history has taught us._

The royal family brought him to his other kin waiting in Lannisport. Ned was torn between joy at seeing his nephew after such a long time and rage that the king would dare bring him so close to the war. Beneath it all was an anxiousness about who he would find, and what Rhaegar would allow to pass between them.

 _Rhaegar._ Ned frowned at the thought of the man he had helped secure the throne for. The Targaryen had kept his word and returned the remains of his father and brother to Ned after the Rebellion had ended, and he had also refrained from interfering in matters within the North, like the kings who had come before him. For all that, the king was still widely disliked and mistrusted by the lords sworn to Winterfell, and some questioned the wisdom of answering his call to arms.

Knocking interrupted Ned’s thoughts. The cabin door opened as Rodrik Cassel poked his head in. “We’ve reached the harbor, Lord Stark. Lord Hoster says to get your ass on deck.”

“Thank you, Rodrik.” Ned sat up, stretching as he made to stand. “Tell them I’ll be up in a minute.”

The door closed again. Ned quickly dressed himself. He decided on the leather and light mail that was commonly worn on by soldiers on ships. One never knew what was in store, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

As he emerged onto the deck Ned scanned around him, taking in the sight of Lannisport. It was much larger than Barrowton or even White Harbor, but the scars of battle were still there to see. Ned could make out ships bearing the golden rose of Tyrell and the grapes of the Arbor. The Redwyne fleet had come in force to heed the king’s call. At a glance, Ned estimated at least two hundred ships were in their number, half of those war galleys. _There should be more. Where are the rest of them?_

As the ships neared one of the docks, Ned spotted a cluster of men waiting besides the men manning waiting with ropes to tie them off. The white cloaks left little doubt as to who was waiting for them. _Is Rhaegar here, or did he just send them to collect Hoster and myself?_

It took a few minutes for their ship to be tied down and the boarding ramp lowered. Ned quickly jumped onto it, striding onto dry land for the first time in a fortnight. Lord Tully was right behind him, with Ser Rodrik and the two lord’s other guards following close behind. As they did, the party awaiting them moved closer, led by a man Ned was glad to see.

Benjen looked hale, which was more than Ned had expected. His cloak was white as snow, but elsewise his garb was dark, and much lighter than the enameled armor of the Kingsguard. He was not as thin as when he’d left, though was still more lean and wiry than strong. Behind him a group of men was clustered, among them an armored Kingsguard who Ned could not recognize from that distance.

He greeted his brother with a firm embrace, pleased that it was returned with a strength Benjen had lacked last they met. He released his brother and addressed him. “Benjen, you look fatter than I thought was possible. Gotten lazy in King’s Landing?”

“Please, the way the knights strut and the women swoon, it’s a wonder they ever feed me enough,” Benjen retorted, “but you, now, I see you’re as thin as last we met. I thought Cat would’ve fed you enough to get some muscle by now. I’ll have to write and tell her she needs to either get you to eat more or stop burning it away in the bedchamber.”

“Cur.” Ned shoved him playfully. He turned to the men behind him. “You remember my good-father, Lord Tully. As for the rest, you’d best remember them.”

“My lord.” Benjen nodded respectfully at Hoster, who returned the gesture. He then shot a smile at the other northmen with Ned. “Rodrik, you’re looking well. The rest of you look sick as dogs. What, did the sea take your meals?”

The men chuckled at that. Benjen turned to the side and motioned behind him. “His Grace had business at the Rock and couldn’t come down to greet you. But he told us to stick around and see you greeted and settled proper. Don’t get too comfortable, he wants to set sail and finish this before the storms start turning north.”

“Good idea.” Hoster nodded at that. “The sooner we sail, the sooner we can all go home.”

“Speaking of which,” A familiar voice raised itself to address Ned and the others, “We’d best head towards the keep, Lord Tarly will want to go over the logistics with you as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Ser Barristan.” Ned turned to focus on the other Kingsguard. He hadn’t recognized the man from the deck, but the stalks on his shield were enough, along with the voice that Ned had become familiar with on the march to King’s Landing. He started to walk towards the knight when he realized that there weren’t just men waiting behind him. At the Kingsguard's side was a boy who Ned had not realized was there, even more surprising given his looks.

 _By god, he could be me or Benjen made young again._ The lad was of an age with his son Robb, yet his son took after Catelyn in most ways. Jon, for who else could he be, was clearly one of Stark blood, though his dark eyes were a contrast to the light grey that Benjen and Ned shared.

His nephew walked forward as Eddard looked him over. Jon stopped just in front of him and looked up at his uncle. There was curiosity in his gaze, coupled with wariness and what Ned thought might have been warmth. _I suppose it’d be too much to hope the lad remembers me. He was just a newborn when we last met._

“Lord Stark.” Jon gave a short bow to him, then repeated the gesture towards Hoster. “Lord Tully. It makes me happy to meet you, and you again, lord uncle.” The boy’s feet shifted as he said the last part, and Ned realized that the lad was nervous. _What has Rhaegar told him of me?_

Benjen nudged Ned hard in the ribs. “Loosen up, Ned. The lad’s wanted to meet you since I arrived in King’s Landing, you could try talking to him.”

“Thank you, Benjen.” Ned shot a glare at his brother before returning his nephew’s bow. “Prince Jon. I see you’ve grown much since I last saw you. You have your mother’s look, any man can see that.”

Jon smiled at that, the wariness dropping from his gaze a bit. Behind him, Barristan watched their exchange, passive expression at odds with the sharp eyes that did the watching. _But is he watching for himself? Or for Jon’s father?_

“Egg-, excuse me, my brother Aegon is waiting in the keep with Ser Arthur,” Jon addressed both him and the men behind him. “We shouldn’t make them wait.”

“Yes, my prince.” Barristan looked at Ned and Hoster. “Shall we start moving?”

The knight didn’t wait for an answer, instead moving to stand next to Benjen. The royal party began walking towards the keep, save the two Kingsguard, who came to stand closer to the prince. Benjen caught Ned’s frown at them and shrugged. “We _are_ in a city that just saw a battle, Ned.”

Eddard sighed. “True enough.” He looked at Jon, who was apparently waiting for them to start walking. He did so, and the prince fell into next to him, with Benjen taking position two feet behind.

“My lord, is your family well?” Jon asked him.

“Aye, they are all fine. Word came from Winterfell at Seagard, your aunt gave birth to our second daughter barely two weeks ago.”

“That’s good to hear.” Jon’s smile lit his face as he spoke. Eddard suspected the lad did not smile like that as often as he should. “And the others, Robb and Sansa, they are well also?”

“Both of them are hale and hearty, though Robb caught a chill last month. He was on the mend when I left Winterfell. We Starks are as hardy a bunch as you’ll find, my prince, as I’m sure Benjen has taught you.”

“Jon.” Ned looked at his nephew, who smiled at him. “You’re my uncle, Lord Eddard, so please just call me Jon. It’s the same way with Uncle Benjen.”

Ned glanced at Benjen, who nodded at him. He smiled at the lad. “Jon it is, then.”

“Tell me, did you fight any ironmen yet? We heard they were reaving along the riverlands’ coast.”

“They have. But no, none of them have tried to fight us. In fact, besides the villages we didn’t see any ironborn on our way south.”

Jon looked worried at that. “The Arbor lord said the same when they got here. Father is concerned, even though Ser Arthur keeps telling him not to worry.”

 _So, Greyjoy hasn’t tried to attack either the Redwyne ships or ours since the attack on Lannisport. Either they’re even more weakened than we thought, or they have something in mind we haven’t guessed yet._ Eddard hoped it was the former, yet experience told him to prepare for the worst

“My prince,” Hoster spoke up, “would you happen to know if these are all the ships the Reach sent?”

“No, there are more. Lord Tywin thought it a bad idea to cluster them all in the harbor, so some went to the Rock, others to Fair Isle.” The prince looked irritated as he spoke. “Viserys keeps boasting about commanding a ship during the attack, even though Father has forbidden it.”

Eddard suspected that Rhaegar’s brother was no friend of Jon’s, judging from the way his nephew’s eyes darkened at his other uncle’s name. In fact, Ned realized that they now looked violet, making the lad look less a Stark and more a Targaryen. The moment ended, and Jon’s eyes lightened as he glanced at Benjen, who winked at the prince. Whatever passed between them, Ned couldn’t say.

They had reached the keep by now. Barristan moved to go ahead of them and walked through the open doors to the main hall. Eddard glanced at Hoster and Benjen as they waited outside.

A few moments later, Barristan came back. He glanced at Ned before addressing Benjen. “The king’s returned. He waits within.”

“So soon? I thought he would be at the Rock until the evening.”

“Apparently not.” Eddard felt a coldness creep into his bones. _Most like he decided he didn’t want Lyanna’s son alone with her brother for too long._

He sighed and glanced at Lord Tully. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

As they entered the hall, Ned scanned the interior. The hall was semi-full, with few servants to be seen. Most present were soldiers or knights, with few men dressed in anything other than mail or leather. He spotted the sigils of westermen, The Reach, and the crownlands among their number. The sigil that he sought, though, was at the end of the hall, where a three headed dragon adorned the ceiling, while a real dragon waited beneath it. Ned walked towards him, his comrades following just behind.

Rhaegar Targaryen looked much the same as when last he and Ned met. There were new creases in his eyes, and his face spoke of a weariness that Eddard hadn’t detected even at the end of the Rebellion. He wore no armor, instead dressed in red and black silk, while a crown with seven different jewels rested on his head. _The crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Does he think it will help him reconcile the ironborn after they are beaten?_

The king wasn’t alone. With him were two other members of House Targaryen, if their looks spoke the truth. One looked about the same age as Jon, though a bit heavier and light purple eyes. His expression was one of interest, and it became pleased as the lad looked at Jon, who nodded back with a grin on his face.

The other was much older, a youth of fourteen or thereabouts by the look of him. His was a slim build, and like Rhaegar was dressed in the colors of their house. His expression was bored, though his lips curved into a smile as his eyes fell on Jon. _So, this is Viserys._

Eddard walked to the base of the dais and knelt. “Your Grace.” Hoster and the others mimicked his words and movement. Jon kept walking until he was standing with his father and the other sons of the dragon, while Benjen and Selmy each took a place to the side.

“Lord Stark.” Rhaegar’s tone was courteous, though it lacked any warmth. “Please, rise.”

Ned did so, glancing at some of the other men near the king’s seat. He recognized Jon Connington and Randyll Tarly, while a youth dressed in the green and gold of Tyrell stood by the latter. _Willas, isn’t that his name?_ “Lord Tywin isn’t here?”

“He’s still had business to attend to in Casterly Rock,” Rhaegar replied, “he should visit the city tomorrow.”

“How gracious of him,” Hoster said dryly. “We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Prince Jon, Your Grace. I’m guessing these are the princes Aegon and Viserys?

“That’s right.” The younger one spoke up, stepping forward to give a short bow to the Lord of Riverrun. “I’m Prince Aegon, and this is Viserys.”

“My lords.” Viserys didn’t bow, merely inclined his head toward Hoster and Eddard. “I take it the scum didn’t bother you on your way here.”

“No, the ironborn seem to be avoiding a fight for now,” Hoster noted.

“They think they can hide from the dragons?” Viserys’ face twisted as he sneered. “I think the Iron Islands are due for a reminder of what treason and rebellion bring. _Fire and blood_.”

“Of course, my prince.” Ned didn’t like the way the youth looked as he said those last words. _He looks as if he finds pleasure in the killing of smallfolk, men or otherwise._ His nephew’s dislike was already becoming easier to understand.

“Viserys, go find Ser Mandon and bring him here.” Rhaegar turned to look at his younger brother. “Ser Arthur should return soon, I want all of the Kingsguard present for the meeting.”

“If you want a messenger then I suggest you send one, brother. A dragon doesn’t run errands. Besides, Moore should be back before long all on his own. It’s not as if the man has any woman hidden away.”

The prince laughed at his own jape. Aegon rolled his eyes while Jon glared at his uncle. Rhaegar just sighed. “That wasn’t a request, Viserys. Now get moving, _now_.”

Viserys’ humor vanished at that. He looked ready to argue further, then shrugged. “As you wish, brother.”

The prince stood and practically stalked out of the hall. As he did, he threw a sneer back at Eddard and his company, though he suspected that some of it was directed at the young prince standing behind them. _I had heard this one could be troublesome. For once, the gossips were right._

“Lord Eddard.” Rhaegar stood, motioning to a side door. “With me, please. You too, Ser Barristan.”

Ned glanced at his brother, who merely shrugged before smiling at him again. Eddard sighed as he followed the king and his knight out of the hall. As he did, he glanced back towards Jon, who gave him a nod and a smile before Ned turned back towards the king.

They did not go far. An empty hallway after a couple flights of stairs was where the king chose to stop. Rhaegar turned and looked at Eddard. “It’s been a long time, Stark.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”  Ned wondered what Rhaegar could possibly have to talk to him about. _Oh please, even a fool could see the answer for that._

“You’ve acquainted yourself with my son,” Rhaegar noted, confirming Ned’s thoughts even as he was thinking them. “How do you find him?”

Eddard shifted at the question. “Healthy, and well cared for, if appearances are correct. He favors his mother, that much is obvious.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ned began, but the king cut him off, “We’re well past formalities, Stark. Speak your mind, you’re supposedly well-liked for that in the North.”

“As it pleases you.” If the man wanted candor, he’d damn well get it. “He seems quiet, shy, and warier than any lad his age ought to be.”

“Being a prince will do that to a boy, Stark. Especially one in such circumstances as Jon.”

“You’re the king, aren’t you? Why don’t you change them?”

“Now who sounds the fool?” Rhaegar sighed as he rubbed his temple. “I am not a god. I cannot change people, no matter who I might wish it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead turning to Barristan. “What do you think? Can it be done?”

“I cannot say with certainty,” the knight stated, “but I believe it can work. Though only time will tell.”

“Good.” Rhaegar turned back to Ned. “While we’re working together, I intend for you and Jon to become much more familiar. Rest assured, Eddard, my son’s well-being is far more important to me than to you.”

 _Somehow, I believe you. Though I doubt that that is a good thing._ “What is it you intend, Rhaegar?”

The man smiled at the question. “I intend to act on your advice and _change the circumstances_.”

Eddard's confusion grew at the king's words and expression. Whatever this man had in mind, Ned intended to make sure that none of his kin suffered for another Targaryen folly.  _Aye, that includes Jon as well._

"Now then." Rhaegar motioned towards Barristan. "Now that this has been addressed, we can see if Viserys managed to find Moore and get the council started. We have ten days, Stark."

"And then, we set sail."


	10. Shadows and Candles

** Tyrion **

The candlelight was getting low again.

Tyrion scowled as the scroll’s writing became illegible once again. He looked at the stub of candle left to him and glanced around the room, hoping to see another candle in easy reach. There wasn’t as far as he could see. _I suppose I should try to find some sleep._

Sleep hadn’t come to Tyrion easily in the past weeks. Since word came about the Greyjoy uprising, he had been reading histories of their rebellions and accounts of the lords and captains leading them at present. He had even managed to acquire ledgers by Lannisport merchants about their visits to the Iron Islands, reporting what they had been purchasing and in what quantities. All told, sleep was a luxury Tyrion could not afford, at least not now.

He stood and walked from his desk to look out the window. His room here in Lannisport faced the east, and the lands his father ruled stretched as far as he could see from his chamber. The sky was still dark, but it still seemed to mock his suffering eyes with the promise of a new dawn. _If there is a god who rules the day and night, they certainly don’t like me._

Tyrion sighed as he began shedding the clothes he had worn since yesterday and slid into fresh replacements. If the accounts he had were right, then Lord Balon had been preparing for this day since his father had died. That was seven years of food, weapons, building materials, and all other sorts of supplies that the ironborn had stored up, as much as they could get their hands on. Clearly, they realized the need to survive a blockade by the fleets that would come against them.

Clothes changed, the dwarf walked over to his door and tugged it open, trudging towards the kitchens. _Hopefully I can get my hands on some good bacon at this hour, with something to drink it down with._

His thoughts stayed with the war as he walked towards the main hall. The Iron Fleet hadn’t been seen since the attack on the city, and reaving’s had been slowing in the westerlands and Reach, though the riverlands were still feeling the ironborn’s rage. Victarion and Aeron Greyjoy were prisoners, robbing their kin of the Fleet’s commander and two brothers besides. Any sane man would be asking for terms, end the fight and lick their wounds.

_Any sane man. There’s the problem, simple as it is._

Tyrion’s thoughts were interrupted as he entered the main hall. It was almost deserted, save for the youth reading a book at the table in its center. Brown hair hung about his face while brown eyes scanned the pages rapidly, fixed on his subject like a maester. _Or a man in a brothel inspecting the merchandise._

“My lord.” The heir of Highgarden raised his head sharply to see who was greeting him. Tyrion gave him a wave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tear you from that. I know how a good book refuses to let one go until you are done with it.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Willas smiled as he glanced about the hall. “You’re up early.”

“Up late, you mean. Sleep refuses to visit me these days.”

“Ah, well. I didn’t sleep much either.” The lordling shrugged. “We all cope as best we can, I suppose. Perhaps I could lend you this, see if it gives your mind what it needs to rest. Well written, feels less like history than it does a legend.”

“All legend was history, once.” The dwarf walked over and glanced at the cover of Tyrell’s book. “ _The Princess and the Queen: A Study of the Dance of the Dragons._ What might this story have that grabbed your interest, Tyrell?”

“Much of the fighting during the Dance was on the sea. I thought it might help me form some plan for when the fleet arrives in the Iron Islands. After all, the Red Kraken was a terror in those days much like Balon Greyjoy is now.”

“Lord Balon would no doubt love the comparison. Though I think Dalton might be offended.”

Tyrell laughed. “I just sent a servant to bring me some food. You could have him get you some when he returns.”

“I’m sure I will, though I may have a word with him about serving the _Lannister_ after the _Tyrell_ in _Lannisport_.”

Willas laughed again, Tyrion joining him this time. They got along well for the most part. They were close in age, Tyrell just a year less than Tyrion’s seven-and-ten. Their love of books and their collaboration when helping the war effort had been effective at forging a bond between the two. _Lannister and Tyrell, the Reach and westerlands. Our houses could do great things together, if they don’t find a reason to oppose each other first._

Willas stopped laughing as his mind turned to a subject close to where Tyrion’s mind had gone. “So, how was the king’s brother the last few nights?”

Tyrion shrugged. “He likes the Rock, as most visitors do. A bit conceited but being a prince will do that to a man. Has a bold streak, if his tongue is anything to judge by.”

“My grandmother likes to say words are wind.” Willas glanced down at his book. “If the king brings the princes with us, I suppose we may get the chance to find out.”

 _So, this one has an interest in the royal family. Him and every other man in the Seven Kingdoms._  “I suppose we will.”

Tyrion stood from his chair. “I think I’ll go track down that servant of yours and take whatever he has for myself.”

“Good luck, I still haven’t managed to find the kitchens yet.”

“I suspect I know this castle a bit better than you, my friend.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away from the table.

If Tyrell hadn’t found the kitchens yet that meant he was either blind or hadn’t tried at all. They were but a minute’s walk from the hall, as Tyrion was reminded of as he entered them. There was no servant to be seen, though food was another story entirely. Breads and cheeses sat on tables and cupboard levels at all levels, while bottles of mead and wine hung in racks along the wall. In another castle one might fear thieves, but in both Casterly Rock and Lannisport they had long learned the price of trying their luck here. _Father is called the Shield of Lannisport. Guardian of the Pantry may have been the title the gods intended for him._

Tyrion smiled as he picked through what he could see and grabbed what he wished. Two wheat loaves, a few slices of goat cheese, and a mug for his wine. He found a half-and-half mix of water and wine was good for a sleepless night. It seemed to warm the blood while chilling the bones. Tyrion indulged in wine or mead or even ale on an almost daily basis, though he very rarely allowed himself to get drunk. His father disapproved but tolerated it so long as his son refused to let the drink go to his head completely.

As he settled onto his seat, Tyrion glanced up at the candle at the small table in front of him. It was alight, with plenty of wax left to burn. _Perhaps I’ll take it back with me, if I still can’t sleep after this._ He bit into the bread, savoring the taste as he chewed. As he did, he poured the wine into his cup, then reached over to the water pitcher to top it off.

He was picking up the mug to drink when his eyes found the candle again. He stopped, looking at it curiously. _Why are you alight?_ Even now the kitchen had its fair share of light, the fire the cooks used to make stew and cook meat crackling nicely but a few feet away. The servants made sure to keep it lit, that’s why one usually slept in here.

That thought made Tyrion glance about again. He was alone, he was sure of it. No one else was in the kitchens.

 _Not one servant to be seen. So, what of it?_ Tyrion knew the servant bedchambers were but a half-minute walk from here, if that. They likely sent someone to tend the fire every hour or so. Even so, his mind was changing pace, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, more slowly this time. Everything seemed as it had when he had first entered.

 _A man’s instincts can be wrong, but he’d be a fool to doubt them. Elsewise he could never trust himself._ Jaime had told him that years ago. Tyrion had found it was solid advice and intended to follow it. He stood, grabbing his platter as he walked out of the kitchens, back towards the main hall.

Willas was still there, pouring over his book. He glanced up as Tyrion entered, smiling at the food and mug he carried. “Did you plan on sharing, or am I still going to have to wait for that man to find the kitchens?”

“He was nowhere to be seen.” Tyrion placed the platter and mug on the table across from Tyrell. “Either he is very new to his work or he didn’t go there at all. Either way, point him out the next you see him. I’ll have the steward remind him of the kitchen’s location.”

“I doubt that will be necessary.” Willas looked uncomfortable. “I’ve found going easy on the smallfolk working in a noble household is more productive. After all, if we don’t look after them, who else will?”

“A noble idea. Though I doubt many lords would agree with you.” Tyrion settled into his seat as he began slicing a loaf he had brought back. “Now, I suppose I could share some of this, but that dep-”

His sentence was abruptly cut off as the door leading to the interior opened. Royal men walked out single-file, each dressed and armed as if going to battle. By the time they were done, forty men-at-arms had entered the main hall only to take positions at the doors that led to the castle bailey.

As they did so, Tyrell closed his book and stood up. “What is happening?”

“The war is, my lord.” As the soldiers tapered off an older man in white enameled armor and a matching cloak followed behind. Ser Mandon Moore glanced at the two young men before turning and walking down the hall. He called over his shoulder, “The king’s done waiting. The orders are going out, we sail today.”

“What?!” Tyrion’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into him as his mind’s dark turn grew darker. “We were supposed to have another four days, Moore. Does my father know of this? Or Lord Stark or Tarly?”

The knight stopped and turned, pale eyes fixing on Tyrion’s mismatched ones. “I can’t say, my lord. Not that it would matter. The king has commanded it, and that is all there is to it.”

The knight turned and looked at one of the men. “Get your ass to the barracks. Have them send riders to the Rock and to the camps. If we’re going to make it out of hereby the end of the day, asses need to get moving.” The man nodded before jogging off, his armor clinking as it did so.

“Ser Mandon.” Willas was walking over, concern on his face. “The king realizes it is still two hours till sunrise? There’s no way we can sail before dawn.”

“No, but if we start preparing now, we can be underway by the afternoon, if not sooner.” Moore shrugged. “The decision’s made, my lord. Nothing to do now but make the most of it.”

With that, the Kingsguard walked off, presumably to give more orders.

Tyrion didn’t intend to wait for someone else to give him orders. He turned towards Willas. “If the king is giving orders, that means he’s awake. I intend to go ask after his reasons for this.”

The reachman looked troubled but nodded. “I will join you.”

As they walked deeper into the castle, Tyrion pondered potential motives for this decision. He supposed it could be the king had simply grown impatient. That seemed out of character, though, for a man whose calm and quiet bearing were famous. Another reason could be that he wished to reach the Iron Islands sooner than anyone expected. _Perhaps sooner than_ they _expected. Does the king fear that Greyjoy has spies in Lannisport?_

It was far from impossible. Even now, many in the kingdoms fostered resentment against Rhaegar for the coup against his father the rebellion had turned into. Even if they lacked any fondness for the ironborn, there were those who might seek to prolong the rebellion. _Playing both sides. The oldest trick in the book._ Still, Tyrion wasn’t sure that was the reason either. After all, if there were spies in the city, then they would tell the Greyjoy’s about this move as quickly as possible. And even if they didn’t only a fool would think that Balon would fail to learn that the royal forces had set sail.

Of course, both of those excuses assumed the ironborn were what had driven this decision. With so many plots and intrigues centered on the king at a given moment, there were all kinds of things that might have driven this decision. Tyrion hated the _idea_ of that being the case, as it meant that he was in the dark. “Ignorance is the swiftest path to failing in the games of the court,” his father had warned him and his sister often. “Knowledge is a valuable currency wherever one goes, so be sure to have as much of it as possible.”

“Tyrion.” He was torn from his thoughts by Willas’ voice, calling him back to their path. “Who _was_ there when you went to the kitchens?”

“Not a soul, save for mine.” He was irritated that Tyrell’s mind was still on the damn kitchens. “Why do you ask?”

“I could’ve sworn there were people in it earlier. That’s why I sent the servant to find me some food. I was certain that food was being prepared.” Willas’ face was now alert, eyes alight as he spoke. “What are the odds that, if there was something happening in there, it might not have been cooking?”

Tyrion glanced sharply at the Tyrell. _His mind is heading to the same place as mine, though on a different road._ “It’s possible, even in the lion’s den.”

By now, they head reached the king’s solar. Selmy and Stark were the guards at present, which undoubtedly meant that Dayne was within. Tyrion addressed the Kingsguard, “We need to speak with His Grace at once. Is he receiving visitors?”

Stark glanced at Selmy. The latter frowned. “A moment, my lord.” He opened the door and poked his head within, letting their presence be known. After hearing the reply, he turned back towards the two young men. “His Grace will see you.” Stark nodded at the words and held the door open, closing it behind them as they entered.

Ser Arthur was there, just as Tyrion had expected. The Sword of the Morning had removed his helm but otherwise was dressed the same as his three sworn brothers. He was standing next to the table in the room’s center, where Rhaegar sat.

 _Not just Rhaegar,_ Tyrion realized. Also at the table were the king’s son’s, though neither looked truly awake. The younger of the two was clearly exhausted, though his eyes glanced at the heirs of Casterly Rock and Highgarden as they entered his sight. Prince Jon was seated in a chair just to the left of his father, with Dayne standing right behind. Prince Aegon was all but asleep, head resting back on his father’s shoulder with eyes shut, though he appeared to be murmuring to the king.

The king whispered back and smiled, than turned towards the two intruders. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Tyrion spoke first. “Ser Mandon said you were ordering the army and fleet underway. We came to see if that was so and ask after the reasons why.”

“Yes, it is so, and the reason is simple.” The king looked tired as he often did, though his expression seemed more guarded than usual, if that was possible. “I have received word that the ironborn intended to launch an offensive against the Reach, with plans to go as far as the Arbor and up the Mander to Highgarden if they can manage it. We cannot allow them to do so and force us to divide our forces. We will sail at once and strike them now, while their ships are still gathering in their own lands.”

“A-a decisive action, Your Grace.” Tyrell looked sharp as he considered the implications. “I will need to write to my home, inform them of the need to strengthen the coastal defenses and hasten any new ships or levies they intend to raise.”

“Of course, Ser Willas.” The king inclined his head as Willas bowed and turned, leaving Tyrion alone with Rhaegar.

“An attack on the Reach…bold, but foolish.” Tyrion spoke quietly, taking the prince’s presence into account. “Even if such an attack succeeded, it would leave the Iron Islands vulnerable to attack. I wonder how Balon Greyjoy convinced his captains to take this path.”

“I suspect the ledgers you found hold that answer.” The king smiled at Tyrion’s surprised expression. “Yes, I read them as well, Tyrion. They say that Greyjoy has been preparing for a blockade and sieges for years now. I expect his strategy is to inflict enough pain on the lands of my vassals that they pressure me into coming to the peace table and offering him recognition of the crown he desires.”

 _Does he truly expect me to buy this?_ What the king said made enough sense to fool the uninformed in this campaign, but Tyrion was anything but. Whatever Greyjoy had in mind, attacking the Reach while abandoning his kingdom to the royal forces was certainly not it. Tyrion knew that, and Rhaegar knew it as well. _So, what is the real reason for his sudden rush to the Iron Islands?_

The door opened again. Selmy stepped just inside before addressing the king. “Lord Stark and his household are ready, Your Grace.”

“Good. Ser Benjen.” The young Stark walked in as well, customary good cheer gone as his sharp eyes fell on the king. “See Jon to his uncle’s custody, then return here as swiftly as possible.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Stark’s expression softened as he walked to where his nephew was drowsily watching the scene. “Come along, Jon. Ned’s waiting on us.”

The boy merely nodded, sliding to his feet from the chair he sat on. Tyrion looked him over as he started walking towards his uncle. The boy’s cloths were made for sleep, nothing more, and he clearly wasn’t fully awake. As the prince made to pass him, Tyrion reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy there, my-”

He never finished the sentence. A hand cloaked in steel grabbed his arm and pulled it away from Jon, only gentle until it left the boy’s shoulder. Tyrion was thrown off-balance by the gesture, stumbling into the table as Selmy released him and put himself between the dwarf and the prince. His eyes were sharp, and the hand that had just left Tyrion’s arm now rested on the hilt of his blade.

The dwarf slowly righted himself, eyeing the knight as he did so. “Apologies, ser. I assure you, I intended no harm.”

“I can see that, as we all should.” The king’s voice rose, all steel. “That was poorly done, Barristan. I expect more from you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Selmy turned and dipped his head towards Tyrion. “I am sorry, my lord. My nerves have been frayed of late. Please, do not doubt me.”

If there was anything Tyrion doubted, it was the weakness of this man’s nerves. Nothing about him save his words suggested contrition for his actions. And the way he looked at the young dwarf made a shiver crawl up his back. _He is more a lion than any man I’ve ever seen with that look in his eye._

He glanced behind the knight. Stark hadn’t waited to watch how this would play out. He and the prince were both gone, leaving Tyrion alone with the king, his heir, and two deadly men who clearly mistrusted his presence.

“Well, Your Grace is wise to confront this threat so swiftly.” Tyrion turned to look at the king, ignoring the gazes of Selmy and Dayne as he bowed. “I’ll be on my way; the men are going to need as much help as they can get preparing for this voyage.”

“Lord Tyrion.” The king nodded once more. Selmy stood aside as the young dwarf walked passed him to the door. His exit, truth be told, had little to say of courage.

As he walked back towards the main hall, Tyrion glanced at his sleeve. The silk had torn, which was a shame. He noticed the dark red spots that stood out from the crimson of his clothing. He ran a finger over it and wasn’t surprised when the red came onto it as he raised it for inspection. _Not my wine, it would have dried by now._ He didn’t need to taste it to know it would be almost metallic, as blood always was.

Missing servants. A Kingsguard bearing blood. A royal host in a frenzy. A king who kept his sons as close as possible. Even if one could overlook all of that, the unnaturally glazed look in the prince’s eyes had left no doubt in Tyrion’s mind. He also did not doubt the older prince shared the look. _I think many things of Rhaegar but sedating his own sons isn’t one of them._

Tyrion sighed as he changed direction, instead looking for the maester’s chambers, where he could find ink, parchment, and a raven to send to the Rock. His father would need to hear of this as soon as possible.

 _The king doesn’t want to sail_ to _somewhere. He wants to sail_ from _somewhere. Here, to be precise._

It made sense of course. King’s hated cities as often as they liked them, and the former rarely stayed long.

Especially when they knew that knives were being drawn and sharpened, with them and their kin in mind.


	11. Kith and Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Red Keep, those left behind speak of kin, of hope, and of despair.

** Rhaenys **

“The squires are at it again, princess.”

“Already?” Rhaenys sighed as she turned and looked at her companion. Arianne nodded, a smug grin on her face. “I suppose I owe you a stag, then.”

“A dragon. And a rose to go with it.” The older girl flipped her hair over her shoulder as she walked away from Rhaenys’ seat. “Shall we, then?”

She rolled her eyes as Arianne left her sight. Normally her cousin liked the royal gardens, remarking on how the air didn’t smell at all like the city that lay beneath the castle. Still, Rhaenys knew that the older girl was not content here, longing for the Water Gardens that she had been raised in.

_I can’t truly blame her. Every time I leave King’s Landing, it doesn’t take long for me to wish for my seat here in the gardens._

Rhaenys stood and started walking after Arianne. Her cousin was always rushing about, especially when excitement beckoned. She wished that Nymeria was here- the bastard girl was one of the few people this side of the Red Mountains that could keep Arianne in line. Alas, Nym was in Volantis, and Arianne near uncontrollable.

The Dornish princess had changed much since she and her kin had arrived a year past. Where once she was a bit pudgy, with no chest to speak of, at fourteen she had shed some weight while growing into her curves. Arianne now looked as lovely as royalty ought to be, it was said, and she had quickly learned how to use it, wooing men and boys into doing as she asked, with hardly more than a flutter of her lashes and a smile.

It didn’t take Rhaenys long to catch up to her cousin. Arianne flashed another grin at her as they left the gardens, the Dornish princess tracing a path towards one of the Red Keep’s inner baileys. Rhaenys could hear fighting long before she saw anything, curses and shouts cutting through the air, along with laughter and cheers. “Please tell me Uncle didn’t spur them on, Ar.”

“He swears he did no such thing.” Arianne sighed as they came to the courtyard entrance. “He may even be telling the truth, Rhae. Boys will be boys, after all.”

Rhaenys’ response died as they saw the source of the noise. A cluster of men had gathered around a pair of bodies struggling in the dirt. As the two girls approached, members of the circle quieted and started nudging their companions, alerting them. Any laughter died away at the sight of Rhaenys’ expression.

All save for the Viper, that was. “Princess, a thousand pardons. We did not hear you approaching.” He gave an extravagant bow to the new arrivals, then looked up and winked at Rhaenys. “I apologize to you as well, niece. It is never wise to stir a dragon from its rest.”

Rhaenys couldn’t help it- she laughed along with her cousin and uncle. Oberyn Martell had long lost his sense of formality, if he ever had one to begin with, and nowhere was that more obvious than with his sister and her two children.

Her attention turned to the brawl still occurring a few feet in front of her. As expected, she knew the fighters at a glance. Monford Velaryon was on top, raining blows on his opponent with one hand while shielding himself from the retaliation with his other. Aurane Waters was stuck under his half-brother’s knees, clearly taking the worst of the fight.

Neither of them seemed to notice the sudden quiet. Rhaenys raised her voice to address them. “Velaryon, I think you’ve mistaken Waters for an ironman.”

Monford’s head shot up as his eyes fixed on Rhaenys. Even at twelve, her beauty was apparent to all, Dornish coloring and slim figure alike. Every squire in the keep was infatuated with their princess, though few had any chance of that wish coming true. That included the Velaryon who she distracted.

His glance proved a crucial mistake. Waters’ fist caught Monford in the chin and knocked him sprawling, grunting as his head hit the dirt and stone waiting for it. Aurane rose to one knee, bowing his head as he glanced once at Rhaenys before looking down at the ground.

“Well done, boy,” Her uncle nodded approvingly, “Always remember, when they least expect it is the best time to strike.”

Rhaenys rounded on the Viper. “I am sure you did everything you could to stop it from coming this far.”

He shrugged. “If they don’t let it out every now and again, it’ll build until their anger puts them or their comrades in danger. Learning how to channel one’s rage is far wiser than suppressing it.”

“It isn’t about anger. It’s about loyalty, and solidarity.”

Her uncle turned to see a white-cloaked newcomer approaching. “Come Oakheart, even you must’ve brawled as a lad. It was only last month, you should remember.”

The young Kingsguard didn’t respond. At eighteen, Ser Arys was the youngest of the white cloaks, and went out of his way to try to act as old as his fellows. Oberyn found it amusing, and never resisted teasing the man. Rhaenys suspected the men would’ve dueled if not for the cloak Arys wore.

The knight was focused on the squires kneeling in the dirt, who had gone pale at the sight of the Kingsguard. Arys had been tasked with keeping the royal squires in shape, and Rhaenys doubted he would be merciful.

“Brawling in front of the king’s blood? That’s a good way to find yourself on the bad end of a stick, lunks. What was the cause of this, then?” The knight demanded.

“It was Aurane,” Velaryon said immediately, “he said if I met an ironman I’d get stabbed as quick as he could blink. Then I-”

“Liar! The bastard’s lying, I swear! I only-”

“There’s only one bastard here, Waters.” Rhaenys voice was quiet, but its tone was sharp as steel, as was the look in her eye as she stared at the youth. He flushed at her words, but stopped speaking, eyeing the dirt at his feet.

Rhaenys didn’t know what made her say that. But watching the squires’ squabble and trade blame had brought another image to her mind, with two younger boys fighting in a similar fashion, the older of the two on the ground as his brother rained blows on his head.

She shook her head to chase the thought away. _He and Egg have never fought, at least not like that. Not yet._

Arianne touched her arm. “It was only a fight, Rhaenys. No lasting harm done. It’s done with, let’s head back.”

“Please heed the lady, princess,” Arys said, “I’ll sort this out, and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Arianne turned to smile at the Kingsguard. “I am sure you have things well in hand, ser.”

The knight blushed at the princess’ smile. For all his stoic appearance, the knight was still young, and Arianne delighted as much as her uncle did in teasing him. Though her teasing was in a very different manner.

Oberyn spoke as well. “As I recall, Lewyn was seeing to your mother in the royal chambers. Perhaps you could help him to see to her, nieces.”

“Yes.” Rhaenys nodded at the Dornish prince. “We’ll do just that. Come, Arianne.”

The two walked away from the group, whose numbers had dissipated by the time they had left. The queen had been in Maegor’s Holdfast for most of the past two months. Ever since her husband and son had ridden west.

“Rhae.” Rhaenys didn’t realize Arianne was talking to her until her cousin tugged her arm. “ _Rhaenys,_ wait a moment.”

The Dornish girl’s grip tightened until they both came to a stop. Rhaenys turned to glare at her. “What, Ari?”

“Don’t play dumb, you can’t pull it off.” Her cousin looked at her, concern in her eyes. “You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Arianne squeezed her arm. “Did you forget that Nym is a bastard too, Rhae?”

“That’s not what I meant!” She was angry that Arianne’s mind had gone there. “Nym’s mother is blood of Old Volantis, her birth is noble in all but name. Waters is just some brat whose mother caught the eye of Monford’s father!!”

“We both know that isn’t who you were thinking of, Rhae.”

Rhaenys glared at her cousin. “I think we should keep going. Don’t you?” She started walking without waiting for Arianne to answer.

She kept up with Rhaenys, still on the damn subject. “Look, I know you don’t like _him,_ but Aurane never did anything to you. Or am I wrong?”

Rhaenys sighed. “No, Waters has never done anything to me.”

“Well then here’s a lesson, Rhae- if you punish people near you just because the ones you don’t like aren’t there, you will only have a few people close to you at all.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Rhaenys’ mind had moved to another place. “It’s just that with Father taking Vissy and Snow with him and Egg-”

Arianne laughed. “Vissy. I like that. Is that out of affection?”

“You know better than that.”

“Yes, I do. Though I still think that the brat’s name is strange to hear alongside your family’s.”

 _Snow. That is the name for northern bastards, after all._ After hearing a servant refer to Jon as Sand, Arianne had protested. “The boy may have been born in Dorne, but neither of his parents were Dornish and he was only there for a few days, a week at most. Waters or Snow will do, but not _Sand_!”

Her Dornish kin were divided on Jon, truth be told. Oberyn treated him as any other boy his age, courteous only when in her father’s or Ser Benjen’s presence. Arianne disdained him, with Obara as well. For some reason, Nym had treated Jon like kin, though they hadn’t spent much time together before she had left for Volantis.

_I hope she isn’t serious about her thoughts on the brat. I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with her while Uncle Oberyn is here._

As for Rhaenys, her father’s presence had forced her to learn quickly to hide her true feelings towards her half-brother. She was as cold as she dared, but never openly rude, save for when their father was away on royal business. The bastard never spoke of their interactions with anyone as far as she knew, even after he learned of what Rhaenys and most of her companions called him.

_Jon Snow. A bastard name for a bastard boy, weirwood vows be damned._

They reached her mother’s chambers as her thoughts churned in her head. Standing outside were two men in the armor and cloaks of the Kingsguard. The knight on the left bore a shield that depicted a watchtower made of white stone, red flames crowning its top. Ser Humfrey Hightower was just a year older than Ser Arys but acted much older than his years. Rhaenys’ father had named him to the Kingsguard on the same day as Oakheart as well, on a royal progress through the Reach. His inexperience meant he was rarely far from his sworn brothers, including the one standing at his side.

Prince Lewyn was standing at the door’s right side as they approached. The Dornishman’s hair was mostly silver, with a few black streaks marking how it had once been. He was not as fast as he had been in the past, though his skill was still matched by only a few in all the Seven Kingdoms. These days, the king preferred to have him guard the queen, a duty Lewyn was happy to fulfill.

He smiled as his great-nieces came into view.  “Come to see to your mother, child?”

“Yes, Uncle Lewyn.” Rhaenys smiled at the older man. “Is she accepting visitors?”

“You should know you don’t have to ask. You are her daughter after all, princess.” He nodded at Ser Humfrey. “You aren’t the only one who had such a notion.”

Rhaenys glanced at the young knight, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “I suppose it’s easy to keep track of my family, seeing as we each have one of you following us.”

She stepped forward and opened the door. Stepping through, Rhaenys smiled again at her great-uncle while she and Arianne stepped into the queen’s chambers.

The rooms looked as they usually did- bright, the red and yellow’s of Dorne helping to fill the chambers with light, the air was a bit stale, though the breeze coming from the open windows helped some. By the wall at the room’s other end was the bed, large enough to accommodate two though it rarely did so. It was there that Rhaenys found her mother.

Elia Martell had not fared well since the war began. Never hearty to begin with, she had lost weight over the past year, and was prone to chills and bouts of dizziness if she moved too fast and often. Lewyn and Oberyn both tended to stay close to her, leaving only when she slept or insisted that she be given some time alone. For all that her illness hampered her movement, she was still beloved at court and in the city, the people taking to heart the story of her defiance before the Mad King.

Rhaenys walked towards the bed, slowly so as not to wake her mother if she slept. It was only when she was just a few feet away that she found the other guest in the chambers. She was curled up beside Elia, sleeping as soundly as the queen herself. _Dany has always treated Mother more like her own mother than a good-sister. She is younger than me and Egg, after all._

Daenerys Targaryen was the youngest of the royal family, born just a month or so after Jon. Like Egg and Viserys, she had the traditional features of House Targaryen- silver hair, pale skin, and deep purple eyes that only the kings could match. Those eyes were closed now, as the princess slept alongside the queen.

Arianne sighed next to Rhaenys. “It’s still hard to believe that the girl is your aunt, Rhae,” she whispered, “with her looks and size considered.”

“It is strange. She thinks it very amusing, actually.” Rhaenys found it funny herself. In practice, Daenerys was treated as a daughter by Rhaenys’ mother and father, and as a little sister by the other men of House Targaryen and Rhaenys herself. Even Viserys went out of his way to be kind to the child, acting less an arrogant prince and more a considerate brother around her. _I suppose even Vissy needs someone to like him._

Daenerys was the only other Targaryen who got along well with Viserys, somehow. She and Egg were also the only ones who treated the northern brat like kin as well, despite Rhaenys’ and Viserys’ coolness in public and contempt in private.

Elia herself was the only member of the royal family whose feelings towards Jon were unknown to Rhaenys. As best she could tell, her mother treated Jon much like a ward, never failing to be polite and helping to keep him out of trouble and seeing to his upbringing. But there was no warmth in her treatment of the boy, which seemed to hurt both him and her father. _They’re both fools, thinking Mother could ever accept him. But I thought Father would know better._

Rhaenys’ was pulled back to her surroundings as her aunt stirred on the bed. Alerted by instinct, or perhaps disturbed by a sound the new arrivals had made, Daenerys opened her eyes slowly, blinking the sleep away as she focused on her new company. “Rhaenys?”

“Shh.” She motioned towards her mother. Dany followed the motion and nodded, very carefully sliding off the bed to stand in front of Rhaenys. She motioned towards the sitting room to the left, then started tiptoeing in that direction. Rhaenys and Arianne followed her lead, never saying a word until Daenerys closed the door behind them.

She turned to look at the older girls once the door closed. “Sorry, she was reading me a story when I slept.” Her voice was quiet, but there was guilt in it as she looked at her feet, which shifted uncomfortably. “If I’d known you were coming…”

“It’s fine, Dany,” Rhaenys said soothingly, “she needs the rest, I don’t blame you for that.”

The younger girl smiled, relief suffusing her features. “She had a letter from Rhaegar, so she sent someone to bring me so she could tell me the news.”

“What?!” Arianne looked annoyed. “Why didn’t she send someone for Rhae?”

“She did. Prince Oberyn volunteered to go get you, but he took too long so she read it to me before you got here.”

“Oh.” That was typical. Her uncle probably got distracted by the squire’s brawl in the bailey, or else figured that it would get Rhaenys’ attention quickly. Still, she was irritated that she hadn’t been there to hear her mother read her father’s letter. “So, what did it say?”

“He said that the boys were all doing well, and that the fleet was sailing in few days. It was dated four days ago, so they’ve probably left by now.” Dany’s face grew worried as she spoke. “I hope Rhaegar doesn’t take them with him to those islands. They should stay at the Rock, or better yet, come back here!”

“Easy, Dany,” Arianne spoke up, “I doubt the king is going to drag those three into the middle of a battle. That’d be as foolhardy as any man could be.”

“As if he hasn’t been foolhardy before.”

Ari and Dany both looked at Rhaenys as the words left her lips. Her hand came over her mouth, as if to stop them or bring them back. _Mother keeps telling me to guard my tongue better. Fool, why can’t you listen?_

“Rhae,” Arianne spoke soothingly, “come now, no good will come of that. Let’s go find a minstrel, we can hear him play in the gardens, or maybe the Maidenvault…”

“Yes!” Daenerys practically hopped at the prospect. “Maybe the song will be about the Dragonknight, or the Usurper’s fall!” She was on a roll now. “Do you know any other songs like those? Maybe Egg and Jon will hear some new ones in the west. I bet they’ll have a song about them one day, maybe us too-”

Rhaenys’ tongue loosened itself again. “If Snow ever has a song with him and Aegon in it, it’ll be how he was put in his place by the-”

“Rhaenys!” Daenerys looked shocked at her words. “He’s not a Snow, don’t call him that! He can be quiet, and is sad too much, but he’s kin and nice and we shou-”

“The day I call that bastard brother will be when the seven hel-”

The sitting room door opened. “I trust I’m not interrupting something important?”

The three all spun to watch the queen push the door open. Her face was still tired, but it was hard as it scanned her kinswomen. Behind her the Kingsguard were standing as still as possible, though Lewyn had a look that Rhaenys thought might be pity.

“Your Grace.” Arianne dropped into a kneeling position. Daenerys mimicked her, eyes wide and chin wobbling. But the queen’s gaze had already focused on her daughter. Rhaenys withered under the look, not because of any anger or frustration in it, but the sadness in her eyes. _I swore I wouldn’t make things harder for her. So much for my oaths._

“Ser Humfrey.” The knight stepped forward at Elia’s voice. “Please see Arianne to her uncle. It is time I spoke with my two dragons, alone.”

“Your Grace.” Humfrey motioned at Arianne. She was already rising, shooting a look of encouragement at Rhaenys and Daenerys before leaving the room, the Kingsguard following close behind. Lewyn went with them, stopping just outside the chamber doors, resuming his watch. Then the door closed, and Rhaenys was alone again with her mother and aunt.

“I-,” Rhaenys started to speak, stopped, then tried again. “Did I wake you, Mother?”

“No, I woke when my bedmate slipped off.” The queen turned to smile at Daenerys. “It took me a while to stir, that is all. The shouting started just as I was rising.”

“Elia, I’m sorry.” Daenerys hardly ever called her good-sister by name but did so now. Her eyes were glistening, but her voice was steady. “I didn’t mean to shout, I just lost track of my voice. I was angry, that was all.”

“You wouldn’t be a dragon if you didn’t breathe at least a little fire.” Elia’s voice had lost its hardness, turning soft as she smiled at the two young girls. “Neither of you would be.”

Her tone and look only made Rhaenys feel guiltier. _And Dany didn’t even try to blame me. Seven save me, why did I shout like that?_

“Mother, please don’t blame Daenerys,” She said quietly, “I was loud first, I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

“No, you should not have.” Elia sighed as she looked at her daughter. “Losing your temper in private with only kin present is one thing, Rhaenys. What if you had been in court or the gardens, with people all about you? What would they think of a young princess who became so angry so suddenly?”

“I suppose they might be…disappointed.”

“That’s one word for it, I suppose.” The queen sighed again. “I heard your words, girls. And even if I hadn’t, you don’t need magic to guess the right answer. Daenerys, it is good that you defended your kin like that. If you are as loyal to the rest of your House as that, the crown will be well served.”

Dany beamed while Elia turned toward Rhaenys again. “Rhae, I know this is hard for you. But I promise, the gods have a strange way of working. You will be surprised by the things that they choose to give and take from people, even royalty.”

“But for now, Jon and Aegon and Viserys and Rhaegar are all in danger, close as they are to rebels who would gladly see them _all_ hurt or worse. It is unwise to wish ill on one, when the gods might answer your prayers and hurt any near those you wish harm on.”

Rhaenys was stunned. She had never thought of that. _If Egg or Father are hurt because of me, then-_ “I never meant for that, I swear! I just-”

Rhaenys faltered then, tears coming to her eyes. They were quickly wiped away as her mother wrapped an arm around her and Dany and drew them both close.

“I know, and I am sure the Seven do as well,” Elia whispered. “Daenerys, what was it that Ser Benjen taught Jon about direwolves?”

“In winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Dany whispered back.

“Wise words, for the Starks and anyone else with the wit to hear them. Stand with your kin, and you will thrive, even as the world shifts around you.”

Rhaenys clung to them both then, her tears wetting her mother’s clothes. They were of sadness, and of fear for her, and her father, and her brother, both far from home.

But only for the one brother, the one whose mother she shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are only a few chapters left before the next big jump forward. It'll be the last of such, since we'll come to where the books begin.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, quick note- To keep things a bit less gross, I've taken the liberty of moving Rhaenys' and Sansa's birthdays a couple of years back. That would make them twelve and six at this point in the fic, respectively. Everyone else is the same age as book canon, unless I specifically note otherwise.


	12. Dragons and Krakens

** Rhaegar **

The drums were still beating.

He did not know who had ordered them to begin, and whether it had been his forces or the foe’s that had begun. All Rhaegar knew was that it had helped obscure the sounds that men and ships had made as battle was joined.

The royal galley gave a sudden jolt, almost throwing him from his feet. He gritted his teeth and shifted with the momentum, careful not to let his black armor and helm unbalance him. Another man was not as fortunate, yelling as he fell to the deck’s floor. The sailor was quick to return to his feet and ran to the mast, grasping at one of the axes at its base, secured in the event they came under attack.

_Which is more like than not, as we know._

Ser Arthur didn’t have the same trouble as his king did. The Kingsguard wore full plate yet acted as if he were on solid ground. Nothing seemed to shake him, be it wave or man. Rhaegar envied him that. It was another reason he felt confident in the outcome of the war raging around them.

All around the royal galley, ships were crashing through the waves towards or sometimes _into_ one another, screams and battle cries raging as men were felled by their foes or by the sea itself. None of the ironmen had reached the king’s ship yet, but it was bound to happen, given the ferocity of their foe and the sea’s insistence on throwing all the ships out of place.

That was what the royal fleet was counting on.

Arthur turned his head to speak to Rhaegar. “It looks as if the remaining war galleys and ships from the Iron Fleet are all here, Your Grace, or at least most of them.”

“Good. Better here than pursuing the others.”

The strategy was the child of the Lannister and Tyrell heir’s, of all people. They had noted that, given the size of the forces bearing down on them, the Greyjoy fleet would be mad to meet them in open battle. “Unless, that is, they don’t have to meet us all at once,” Ser Willas had pointed out.

The fleet had been divided into three groups. The first, made up of the larger part of the Arbor fleet and the Tyrell levies it guarded, had sailed northwest, with orders to cut eastward and land at Great Wyk. The second, a mix of the few Lannister ships remaining, the Tully’s, and the Stark’s, had hugged the coast until reaching Banefort, then swung west to make a beachhead Harlaw. The third group was the remaining Redwyne ships and the royal fleet. The course they had set was straight towards Pyke from Lannisport.

Rhaegar scanned their surroundings. There were few transports on either side, with most of the vessels consisting of war galleys, longships, and the occasional cog. This was a true sea battle, with sailors and marines doing the brunt of the fighting. And from the look of it, each side intended to give as good as it got.

There was no denying nature, however. The waters had become rougher the closer they had come to Pyke, and by now only the clear skies above him convinced Rhaegar of the absence of a storm. Otherwise, it felts as if one had burst upon them. _Though it is made of wood, steel, and men._

Still, the ironborn were nearing their objective. While many had fallen into battle with the ships surrounding Rhaegar’s, there was a persistent warship that kept breaking off at any foe’s advance. Circling through sea and debris, its captain was clearly waiting for an opening.

_Its king, that is._

“That ship, Arthur.” Rhaegar’s voice was loud, to carry over the chaos around them. He pointed towards the ship in question. “It want’s to get to us. I’m surprised it’s waited this long. Balon Greyjoy is more patient than I expected.”

“The man is mad, not a fool, Your Grace.” Arthur turned to watch the _Great Kraken_ as well. “I expect he waits to see how the battle will turn before making his move.”

“Well, let’s find Nightwaters and tell him-”

“Your Grace!” Rhaegar turned to see the captain jogging up to him. Eryk Nightwaters was lowborn but knew this ship and the sea as well as any man and better than most. His expression was tired but satisfied as he bowed. “We just received a signal from the _Dragon’s Fury._ ”

“And?”

“So far, we’ve lost twelve war galleys’, twelve of the normal kind, and four cogs. The ironmen have lost twice the warships as us, along with twenty longships, though they don’t seem to have any cogs or plain galleys.”

“And the crews?” Rhaegar was keen to know about this. If the Lannister’s report on the Battle of Lannisport was accurate, then the foe had likely lost more men than the Iron Fleet could afford.

“As Lord Tywin predicted, Your Grace. Not as well-armed or protected as at Lannisport. The crews are smaller than expected, also.”

“Good to hear.” Ser Arthur nodded. “As we hoped, Greyjoy lost the flower of his men in that battle, even if he saved the better part of his ships. A sword is useless without the right man to swing it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rhaegar turned back towards the knight. “I expect Greyjoy’s own ship is still fully crewed. We should pass word to try and-”

“BRACE!!!”

Rhaegar didn’t see Nightwaters shout that. He listened none the less, grabbing the ships railing and braced against the wood. Arthur did the same, just a few feet to his right, along with some sailors, armed or otherwise.

For a moment Rhaegar could have sworn there was a lull in all the noise. It seemed quiet, almost as if the gods had snapped their fingers and bid the battle to calm and the waters to still.

Then the war galley hit them.

Rhaegar was nearly thrown from place as the ship jolted more swiftly and violently than it had ever done before. He only just managed to keep his grip. On his left, a man was hurtled headlong over the galley’s edge, his cry lost as he stuck the water as if a trebuchet had thrown him. Rhaegar swore he heard Ser Arthur curse as he clutched to the railing as well.

They had barely stopped moving when roars filled the air. Rhaegar Ser Arthur turned to where the foe’s ship had struck theirs. Men were leaping onto the latter, axes and swords drawn as they began charging the king’s men.

“For the king, men!” Dayne yelled as he charged into the fight, Dawn catching the sunlight on its milky white blade.

Rhaegar drew his own sword and charged as well, catching one howling ironman in the mouth with his first swing. He jerked his sword free, turning to find another bearing down on him. He caught his foe’s axe with his blade and lashed out, the punch catching the man in his throat. The man’s face turned black, his hands dropping axe and shield as they tried to reach his neck. Rhaegar knocked him onto his back with a kick, driving his sword into the man’s gut with both hands.

With a grunt the king pulled his sword loose, only for someone to barge into him, knocking him against the ship’s mast. He turned, blade raised, only to find a young sailor already moving away, yelling out as he wielded a broken piece of wood as if it were a mace. He was quickly struck by an ironman, blood flowing from his side from where the foe’s blade had plunged through.

In the confusion, Rhaegar cried out a command. “To me! Rally to me!”

Arthur and some of the marines heard and obeyed, others following their lead. Rhaegar snatched up an ironman’s shield and placed it in front of him. He yelled for the men around him to follow suit. “We’re going to ram them off the deck. All of you, with me, now!!”

As the men around him did so, Rhaegar made out a voice yelling commands from the other ship. He couldn’t make out the words but wagered that the man voicing them was the captain. _He refused to lead the charge. Wise or cowardly._

“NOW!!” The king roared.

The royal men charged forward, shields held up as if to make a wooden wall. They crashed into the melee, sending men from both sides flying with the force of their momentum. They back up just a few feet before repeating the motion, before Ser Arthur broke out and swung Dawn, catching two of the foes in a single stroke. The men around him followed, charging the disoriented ironmen with war cries and swinging weapons.

Rhaegar spotted a plank between the ships behind the melee. Without pausing, he charged through the fight, hoping that Ser Arthur would pursue along with the other men on the ship.

As he put his foot on the plank, he felt the sea shift under the two ships. He paused a moment, cursing as the sea threatened to carry the two apart. It held, though, and after a moment he charged up the plank, deaf to the cries that followed him.

As he reached the other ship, an ironman was waiting for him. He seemed surprised to see another man in coming the other way. His expressed was even more astonished as Rhaegar’s blade caught him in the shoulder, cutting through hardened leather to meet the flesh beneath. The man as he stumbled back, only to lose his footing and tumble to the deck. Rhaegar hopped over him, feet hitting solid wood as he landed.

The sight that greeted him was less than welcoming. At least twenty ironmen were standing near him, all with weapons drawn and murder in their eyes. Rhaegar didn’t expect them to let him face them one at a time.

“For the king!” A sailor charged past him, axe swinging wildly as he charged the nearest foe. Their blades caught each other as more men followed, running from behind Rhaegar to face the men ahead. Dayne was among them, blood marring his armor and cloak, though he fought as if untouched by any of it.

Among the men, Rhaegar noticed a man with a gold kraken emblazoned on his shield. His surcoat bore the same, the black beneath it making it stand out more clearly. He had no shield, wielding two axes as he swung them about, keeping his foe at bay.

“Damn it, Maron!” One of the ironmen was yelling at the kraken-bearing fighter. “We need to pull back, else they’ll take the-”

“My father will not hear of how the _Kraken’s Kiss_ fell when we had the dragon in our grasp! Fight, fool!” The voice coming from the helm was young. The man brought his axe down on his foe, catching the royal fighter in the elbow. As the sailor howled, the second axe took off his jaw, before being kicked back by his foe.

“You!” Rhaegar roared out. He advanced toward the youth, blade pointed towards him. He spun to face Rhaegar, grinning as he spotted the black armor and ruby dragon of his foe.

“So, this is the dragon king!” Rhaegar would’ve bet all the money in Casterly Rock that the man was smiling under his helm. “When you meet your gods, tell them Maron, son of Balon, sent you to them.”

They charged each other, blade and shield meeting the two axes in the other’s hands. Rhaegar shoved his foe back and swung his sword, but Maron caught the blade with both axes, sliding one off as he pulled the other free. He swung it at Rhaegar’s head, forcing the king to duck to avoid the blow.

That cost him. His foe’s foot came up, catching his sword hand while it was still extended. Rhaegar gasped as his grip was knocked open, his sword flying away. He stumbled back as the ironman advanced on him.

Rhaegar regained his footing. He scanned the ground for a blade but was forced to look up as he backed away from his foe’s swinging axes. He growled as he did so, gripping his shield tightly in both hands.

His foe paused to catch his breath, a mistake the king used immediately. Rhaegar swung his shield with both arms, as if it were a greatsword and not a piece of wood and iron. The first swing caught the youth’s axes, the second managed to knock one from his grasp. Rhaegar was still drawing his arms back when Maron spun, axe extending as it did. Rhaegar barely had time to move his shield into place before the axe and all the force behind it made contact.

The blow shattered his shield. Rhaegar was thrown back as it did, grunting as he hit the ship’s deck.

His foe was on him in an instant. Axe and mailed fist came crashing down on his armor, again and again. Rhaegar felt the blows dent his armor and bruise his flesh, the axe blade crunching the black steel it met, leaving cuts and slash marks where it managed to cut through.

“You’re mine, dragon!!” The youth yelled above him.

A hard blow hit his helm, piercing through so that the axe cut a gash into his cheek, making him yell. As it did, Rhaegar lashed out with a fist, aimed nowhere in particular, just _UP._

His fist met what felt like the youth’s chest. Maron was thrown back, landing a few feet away from Rhaegar.

He scrambled to his feet. Rhaegar’s visor was warped, but he could still see clearly from his left eye. He spotted the axe his foe had dropped near him and lunged at it, scooping it up as he turned to seek the Greyjoy youth.

Maron was still rising when Rhaegar came upon him. The king’s first blow hit his helm solidly, knocking the youth clear onto his back. The second blow dented the helm even more, the third left a crack through which a bloodied eye could be seen. It vanished as Rhaegar brought the axe down a fourth time, burying it in blood and bone.

He released the axe, gasping for breath as his exertions caught up with him.

“Your Grace!”

Someone was yelling his name. Rhaegar could have sworn they sounded far away, but that didn’t make sense, he wouldn’t have heard them over the battle.

Suddenly the heat around him was gone, as cool air surged towards his head, the visor gripping Rhaegar’s face gone. He blinked rapidly at the man standing with him “Arthur? Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you that!” The Kingsguard looked him up and down. “I saw the fight, but four of the bastards came at me at once. Are you alright?”

“I’ll live, old friend.” Rhaegar shook his head. He felt light-headed, as if all the blood had come rushing into it. _It was probably all knocked out by that damn axe. Thank the Seven for good steel._ He had no idea how his armor had managed to hold up under that axe.

The sounds of fighting had grown quieter. Rhaegar looked up to see the men around him scrambling to the ships rigging and mast. “The ship’s ours?”

“I expect there are still some ironmen below decks,” Arthur replied, “I gave orders to pull this ship away from the Your Grace’s as quickly as possible.”

Rhaegar looked about him. Beyond the ship they were on, the fighting had died down, though it looked as if the royal ships were still picking through the waters near fallen ships, looking for survivors of their own forces or any highborn prisoners to take from the Greyjoy’s.

He shook his head. “Sorry, Arthur. I think I need to get this armor off.”

With that, the Kingsguard grabbed one of Rhaegar’s arms and put it over his shoulder. “I’m getting you back to the ship, come on. Lean on me.”

Rhaegar would have argued if his head would just stop spinning. He grunted as the knight half-carried him back towards the plank. He did his best to mind his feet, and somehow made it over without sending him or the Kingsguard into the water beneath them.

As soon as they were back on the royal galley, Arthur called out to the men still on deck. “Help me get the king to the royal compartments! And fetch the maester, quickly!!”

A sailor came up to them and took Rhaegar’s other arm. Together, he and Arthur walked him to the stairs to the ship’s interior. They guided him in without too much difficulty, making it down the flight and guiding the king down the hall to the royal compartments.

Rhaegar watched as the Kingsguard pushed the door open. “You know, I have no idea how this armor survived that axe.”

“Call it the god’s favor and leave it at that. Besides, I wouldn’t say it survived, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar laughed and immediately regretted it. His body screamed in protest at the action. He almost voiced the pain but bit his lip until blood welled from it.

As he and Arthur began removing his armor, he glanced at the sailor, who seemed to be trying to move as little as possible. “Go and fetch Captain Nightwaters. I’d like to know if I should be worried about a counterattack or not.”

“Aye, yer Grace.” The man spun around and jogged out of the cabin.

“From the sound of it, they broke the attack off.” Arthur pulled off a gauntlet as he spoke. “They need their ships more than we need our own, and I expect the fight went out of them when Lord Balon’s son fell.”

“So _that_ was Greyjoy’s son? The man who tried so hard to chop my limbs off?”

“His second, if I recall right.” Arthur paused as a knock came from the door. “Who is it?”

“The captain, ser.”

“Enter, then.”

Nightwaters opened the door and limped in. His leg was bandaged, tightly by the look of it, but his face shone with triumph. “Victory is yours, Your Grace.”

“Oh? So Balon Greyjoy is dead or captured?”

The captain’s smile faded. “No, Your Grace.”

_Then my hopes have failed. They may yet see war, even now._ “Then we still have a war to win. And victory still eludes us.”

“Your Grace.” Arthur spoke up, giving him an admonishing look. “Whatever strength the ironmen had left was wasted here today, if the gods are good. It’ll make subduing the islands themselves that much easier.”

Rhaegar sighed. “True enough. How many of their ships went down, Captain?”

“Thirty-five or so war galleys, that and half-again as many longships.”

Arthur nodded. “Not enough to stop any of the fleets from making landfall, Your Grace. Even the eastern fleet.”

_The man knows where my mind is._ “Thank you, Arthur. Captain, send the word out to the other ships. Make a sweep for any men who might still be treading water, then we continue on to Pyke, as swiftly as possible.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As the door closed, Arthur sighed. “It is a shame we couldn’t end the war here, away from young eyes, royal or otherwise. I suppose it’s a mercy that the princes weren’t here to witness the battle.”

“Aye, for their sakes more than mine.”

Aegon and Jon had been entrusted with the eastern fleet, assigned to Stark and Tully’s care until the royal fleet reached the Iron Islands. Viserys had remained behind in Lord Tywin’s care, to his son’s delight and his brother’s fury. Just thinking about the fit Viserys had thrown made the pain Rhaegar now felt seem mild. Rhaegar had intended for all of them to remain at Casterly Rock when he’d first arrived, but after what happened the night before the fleet departed, that had no longer been an option.

When the boys had been carried into his chambers by Ser Barristan, Rhaegar had not know what to make of it. The blood dripping from the knight’s arm was enough, though, and the word had immediately been sent out to secure the castle and the town. Besides the men that Selmy had dispatched, though, no one had yet been found that was connected to the attempt.

_And the list of people who might have ordered it done is longer than I care to think, despite my efforts._

“Arthur.” Rhaegar realized he’d said that quietly, so he raised his voice to say it again. “Arthur. Do you think that this was wise? Bringing them here, instead of leaving them?

“No, Your Grace.” Arthur shook his head firmly. “Whether it was one or both who was the target, bringing them here was the right decision. Sad as it is, this was expected, and planned for. Better near you, and a large host of men with swords, then in a distant castle where people think it safe.”

“I only know a few people who ever considered the Red Keep ‘safe’, and they’re all dead.”

Ser Arthur laughed at that. “True enough, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

The knight glanced away as another knock came from the door. “That’ll be the maester. I suppose I ought…”

Whatever the knight said next was lost to Rhaegar, swallowed by darkness. The last thing he remembered was falling.


	13. Orphans of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flames of war rage, and a dragon hatches amidst the embers.

** Jon **

There was snow on the wind, falling from the sky above.

That was odd, considering that summer had begun two years ago and no maester had said it was done. Jon peered up from his pony, curious to see if any clouds had formed above him and his party. Beside him were eight men, northmen and rivermen, as well as Uncle Benjen.

_But there are no clouds, save the black ones made by the soldiers._

Jon said as much to Benjen, who nodded. “Aye, lad, that is the snow of war. Ash is a common sight near a battlefield, it is so in every part of the world.”

“But there isn’t a battle,” Jon replied, confused. “Lord Eddard said the ironmen had retreated to Ten Towers or one of their other castles.”

The knight looked uncomfortable atop his destrier. “Yes, most of their warriors have. But the villages and settlements the people fled are still there. Your uncle and the other lords ordered them razed, to deny the ironmen any food or shelter they might use to aid them in their rebellion.”

Jon hadn’t thought about that. Ever since the ships had landed last week, everyone had been so busy it was hard to think. Lord Tyrion was managing the supplies and directing soldiers to this place or that, while Lord Hoster and both of Jon’s uncles had been riding out each day to take part in a raid or aid in the siege at Ten Towers. Even Egg was busy, running about camp to hear from the knights and lords, trying to make the men smile.

It had been different for Jon. Ever since his uncle had been put in charge of him, things had changed. He was tasked with helping to clean both Benjen’s and Lord Eddard’s armor and weapons clean and was also being shown how to use a bow and sword by them as well. Egg was given the same, but Lord Hoster was more indulgent with his charge, which was part of the reason he got to run about and chat with anyone who would pause for a moment.

A new thought crossed his mind. “But did all of the people leave? The women and children? We aren’t hurting them, are we?”

Benjen sighed. “In all honesty, lad, no, they did not all flee. And yes, you can expect that some men are hurting those who are still outside the walls. There are always those who _can’t_ run away, even if they want to, as well as fools who think it wiser to stay than to go. Such is the way of war.”

 _But they aren’t fighting,_ Jon thought. _Why hurt them? What does that make us?_

His thoughts must have shown. Benjen sighed before kicking his heels into his horse’s sides. “Enough brooding Jon, you’re too young for it. Ned wants us at Ten Towers before midday, and I don’t plan on keeping him waiting.”

Neither did Jon. It would have been rude, and he had questions he expected his other uncle would have answers to. He mimicked the Kingsguard and was pleased when his pony picked up its pace, much like Benjen’s horse.

It felt like hours passed as they rode. The ships had landed two leagues south of Ten Towers, and their party had left just before the sun broke over the eastern horizon. Lord Tyrion had questioned the need of landing so far from the castle, but Lord Hoster and Jon’s uncle had insisted for his and Aegon’s safety. The Lannister had not pressed the issue. Still, Egg and Jon both wished that they didn’t have to ride so far to get to the siege.

The siege at Ten Towers, at least. Egg had gone with Lord Hoster to see the siege of Harlaw Hall, just a league south of where they’d set camp. Egg had already seen Ten Towers while Jon had been at lessons with Benjen, so had decided to go see another castle while Jon took his turn.

Not that his brother had kept any details to himself. Egg had been bursting with them, eager to tell Jon all he had seen and learned about the castle. He had spoken with excitement about the towers for which the castle was named, how each was built in a different fashion form the others, like a god had picked up ten different castles and mashed them all together. Aegon expected the siege to end quickly, seeing as they had to meet the others at Pyke to end the rebellion sooner.

Jon was torn from his thoughts when he heard Benjen curse. He glanced at his uncle, who was gazing ahead of their party. His expression was dark, with anger and what Jon thought might have been anxiety.

“What is it, uncle?” Jon asked.

“Nothing, lad.” Benjen turned his horse to look at the men around them. “There’s a old path a quarter-league back. It tracks further inland, but there shouldn’t be any problem.”

Jon stopped listening as he leaned to the right, gazing through and past the men to where his uncle had been staring. Maybe forty yards in front of them was a thick copse of trees, which was where the Kingsguard was looking. At first, Jon saw nothing but trees and smoke in the sky, same as before. Then he realized that some of the smoke was rising from what he thought was near ahead.

And through the trees, he swore that there was orange and red-light casting shadows outward.

“Benjen, what is happening?”

“I said _nothing_ , Jon.” His uncle’s voice had lost its usual warmth, freezing into ice. “Change of plans, that’s all. We’re turning back for a bit, then changing trails. Let’s go.”

That’s when Jon heard it, coming from ahead. Crying, he was sure, and… _is that laughter?_

Jon didn’t know what was happening. But he knew what Egg would’ve done if he had been with him.

Jon kicked his pony’s sides as hard as he could. It whinnied and jolted forward into a run, startling the horses of the men around him. Before they realized what was happening, Jon was already fifteen yards ahead of them.

He could hear Benjen calling his name, the sound of hoof beats filling his ears as the knight and the other men all spurred their horses after him. They’d catch him, Jon knew, his pony wasn’t nearly as fast as those grown horses.

_But I don’t need him to be fast. Just small._

He had reached the tree line. The copse of trees wasn’t very long, and didn’t seem all that wide either, judging from the flames on the other side. But the trees that were there were clumped together, the gaps too small for a man to get through. At least, for a man on a warhorse.

Where the trail turned right, Jon kept the pony pointed forward. It whinnied as its hooves felt grass, even as Jon heard hooves strike dirt just behind him. But it was already too late.

The pony entered the tree line, managing to fit through. Curses and neighs filled the air as the men behind him tugged their reins hard, forcing their mounts to stop rather than smash the horses and their bodies into the trees. The branches slapped and smacked at Jon’s head, tugged at his cloak, but none of them got a hold. As the sunlight suddenly vanished, Jon kept his eyes forward, towards the flames. Ignoring his uncle’s yells as he looked ahead.

Jon was only riding in the trees for a few minutes. It felt as if no time had passed when the pony broke out of the trees. As soon as it did, it stopped, whinnying in fright at the flames in front of it. Jon patted its neck, sliding off as he looked around him.

The flames were coming from a farmhouse, already hollowed out. The roof was gone, though the walls were still standing. Besides ash and smoke there was another smell that Jon didn’t recognize, a stink that made him sick to inhale. He bit his lip and swallowed hard, forcing the bile to stay down. There were other buildings on fire, some even further gone than the one in front of him, others less so.

Behind him, he heard calls and the sound of snapping branches. He could also hear hoof beats from where he had come, though they were fading. _They’ll take the road, try to trap me between them and the men on foot._

Jon didn’t mind that much. His destination was just ahead of him, and he knew it. He breathed deeply, using his cloak to cover his mouth and nose, and walked around the burning house.

What he found was the village center. The houses were strewn in a rough, circular area, broken by gaps between houses and a trail that probably led to the path to Ten Towers. In the center was a stone well, though its bucket was nowhere to be seen. All the houses were burning, with not a soul left in them.

That wasn’t the case in the center, by the well. A group of men were gathered there, staring inward at something. There were at least ten, in various styles of armor and states of dress. Beside them a knight was standing, armor reflecting the dancing flames, a great fist topping his helm. Another man was also aside clutching a pair of children, a boy and girl no older than Jon, who were staring at the group of men. It was from _there_ that the laughter was coming, as well as the crying.

Jon had long since felt fear creeping into his belly, but there was something else as well, something hot and fiery, like anger but deeper, _fiercer_.

One of the men was talking. “Think she’s just about used up, Raff.” The speaker was young by the look of him, and his words were somewhat muddled by the chuckles coming from him.

“Fuck off, Joss, she’s done when _I’m_ done, and I ain’t finished yet.” The man was on the ground, wearing just a tunic, with his trousers pulled down. He was laughing too, and grunting as well.

That’s when Jon realized that there was someone in the middle of the men. A woman, long brown hair framing her face. He could not see it though, coated as it was in blood. Her clothes were ripped all over, and everywhere they were, Jon could see more blood.

One of the other men spoke up. “If you don’t finish soon, you’ll be fucking a corpse, you damn fool.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Raff sighed. “But I suppose the Imp might take it amiss if we take long. Ain’t that so, ser?”

“Finish.” The words came from the knight. His voice sounded like a great stone was cracking. “If you want somewhere to stick your cock, bring the girl, and the boy if you like. Otherwise, finish them too.”

“Right.” Raff sighed again as he stood, pulling up his trousers with one hand and grabbing a spear from the man next to him with the other. He looked down at the whimpering woman. “After all, I guess you can’t come with us. Can’t hardly walk, can you?”

A sound came from the woman. The man chuckled, then leaned down, putting a hand to his ear. “Try again.”

The sound came again, louder this time. Jon still couldn’t hear it, but apparently Raff did. He threw back his head and laughed. “You think so?”

It happened in a flash. One moment the man was laughing, the next there was screaming.

The children were crying and screaming as Raff pulled his spear out of the woman, blood dripping from its point. She clutched at her throat, trying to staunch the blood from where the spear had torn her neck open. She thrashed for a few moments before falling still.

And then the knight grew.

That’s what Jon thought at first, but then he realized the man had actually been sitting the whole time. Standing, the man was as big as a giant, coated in steel. Three black hounds against yellow graced his surcoat, while a greatsword hung from his waist. On the knight, though, it looked like nothing but a normal blade.

He must have made a sound then, because the giant turned to look at him. _No,_ Jon realized.

_He’s looking past me._

Jon hadn’t realized the ground was shaking. He only did just before the horses reached him, coming to a swift halt as the men on them practically leapt from their saddles. Among them was Benjen, white cloak flapping as he put himself between Jon and the steel giant’s party. From the house Jon had circled past two other men came on foot, steel drawn as they came to stand with the other men.

“Clegane.” Benjen’s voice was the same as when Jon had left him: ice, with no hint of give in it. “We did not think to see you here.”

“No? Good.” The giant shrugged. “If our allies don’t know, our enemies won’t either.” Jon could feel the giant’s gaze as he looked over the Kingsguard’s shoulder. “Since when did you lot start protecting rebels?”

“This is no ironmen, Clegane,” Benjen replied, “this is Prince Jon, son of Rhaegar, of House Targaryen.”

“Is he?” The giant looked Jon up and down. “He is dressed nice, too nice for this scum. Though he’s far from home, isn’t he?”

“As we all are.”

“Hmm.” The giant looked at Benjen. “I suggest you be on your way, wolf.”

“Not without them.” It took Jon a moment to realize that those words had come from _him_.

The giant took a step forward, which took him a quarter of the way to where Jon and Benjen stood. His gaze was now focused on Jon. “Them?”

“ _Them._ ” Jon shoved an arm toward the man to the side, where the two children had gone silent. The girl was staring at the steel giant, while the boy was staring at Jon.

“The spoils of war, boy.” The giant sounded _bored._ “We can do what we please.” He looked at Benjen. “That is how it is done.”

For a moment Jon’s fear washed over him. Then a familiar voice echoed in his mind. _We can’t let him forget that_ we _are dragons too._

“I wasn’t asking.” Jon voice was sharp, and cold, same as Benjen’s or Lord Eddard’s. “I say they come with us, and they _will_.”

“ _Jon_.” It was barely a whisper, but the warning in Benjen’s voice was clear, even as his hand tightened on his sword’s hilt. The men around him shifted, clearly fearful.

The giant took two steps forward. That brought him to a stop three feet in front of Benjen. His voice was quiet, something Jon hadn’t thought was possible. “Say that again.”

The heat inside Jon had spread, and now reached his head. He ducked under Benjen’s arm and stood in front of the giant.

 _“I said they come with us!”_ He yelled the words, throwing them at the giant wearing three hounds as if they were arrows.

All were silent for a moment. Then another. A third.

And then the giant started shaking. Jon didn’t know why, not until he threw back his head and let his laughter boom out, echoing into the air. His men followed, all of them laughing, the sound almost like ravens cawing together,

“The brat has balls!” The giant was still laughing as Benjen pulled Jon back behind him. “Tell me, wolf, does it hurt you knowing this bastard is braver than those who guard him?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “Alright, boy, I suppose the crown is supposed to get a share of the spoils.” He threw out an arm, pointing to where the children were being held. “Choose.”

“Clegane!” Benjen’s voice was angry, his calm ruptured by Jon’s actions. “That’s enough of this! Just-”

“SHUT UP!!” The giant roared. His voice silenced everyone and everything, save the crackles and dull roars coming from the burning buildings. He looked again at Jon.

“Didn’t hear me? Choose.” His voice returned to normal, the stone cracking against Jon’s ears. “Choose one, and I’ll give it to you.”

“I said-” Jon started to speak, but the giant stamped his foot, shaking the ground with the force of it.

“I heard you. And you heard me. You get _one._ Now choose which.”

The heat was gone. Whatever had spurred Jon to speak, to challenge this _thing_ in front of him, it was gone now. And the only thing in its place was fear, fear and uncertainty. He glanced at Benjen, but the Kingsguard wasn’t looking at him, staying completely focused on the steel giant.

He glanced at the two children. They were both staring at him now, eyes wide, faces white, giving them both a haunted look. The boy was crying, while the girl’s teeth had bitten into her lip, blood trickling down from the cut they made.

Jon glanced between the two, fear coursing through his veins. He licked his lips, gulping.

“Seems he can’t decide.” The giant turned towards the children. “I’ll help.”

He walked towards them, drawing the greatsword as he did.

“There’s no need, Ser Gregor. I can make the choice easy.”

The giant stopped as a new voice cut through the air. Benjen head jerked as he turned it to look behind them. Jon spun around, his breath leaving him in a gasp at the sight of a new arrival.

“Seems we missed the fight,” Tyrion Lannister observed, “but the fun isn’t quite done, that’s good to see.” The heir of Casterly Rock rode his horse at a leisurely pace, a contingent of Lannister men riding behind him.

The dwarf glanced at Jon and Benjen briefly before turning back towards the giant. “I trust you haven’t forgotten your liege lord’s share of the spoils either, Ser Gregor?”

“My lord.” The giant motioned back towards the group of men behind him. “We found gold and steel. Lord Tywin will get his share.”

“How thoughtful, Clegane,” said Tyrion dryly, “but my father isn’t who I was speaking of, and even if he were, neither of us care nearly as much about gold as people think. We have enough of it, by all accounts.”

“After all,” Tyrion motioned his arm at the men behind the giant, “your men look weary from the fierce campaign they’ve waged against the ironmen. I’d hate to deprive them of gold and good steel when they’ve clearly earned it.”

The giant was silent, watching as the dwarf rode his horse between him and Jon’s party. Jon didn’t know what was happening. It felt like a god had pulled the world taut, and it would snap at any moment.

“That said, House Lannister still needs its share,” Tyrion said, “but I think I have found an answer that will please everyone.”

He motioned towards the boy. “In lieu of gold or steel, I’ll take the lad off your hands. Wouldn’t want you or your men to go through the trouble of seeing to some thralls when you’re so busy crushing His Grace’s and my father’s enemies.”

The Imp snapped his fingers. One Lannister man dismounted and walked past the giant, no hesitation in his stride. He reached out and grabbed the boy, tugging him away from his captor. Neither the man or the boy resisted, though the girl remained in his grasp, and started struggling to get to her companion.

“My prince.” Tyrion bowed his head towards Jon. “I must apologize, it seems I’ve only left you with one option to choose from.”

Jon didn’t understand why or how, but he didn’t question the Imp’s help. “I forgive you, Lord Tyrion.” Jon motioned towards the girl. “I choose her.”

At that, the giant turned his head to stare at Jon. Jon stared back, the heat in his stomach returning as he did. For a moment he could have sworn he saw the giant’s eyes narrow behind that visor, but it passed as Clegane turned to look at Tyrion, who stared back much like Jon had.

After a moment, the giant grunted and turned, motioning at his men as he started walking. The one holding the girl practically threw her away in his haste to keep up with the giant, while the rest followed suit. The one called Raff stared at Jon for a moment, before spitting and then turning to join his fellows.

The girl had run to her companion and was clutching at him tightly, while he did the same. They were both crying now, their sobs tearing at Jon’s ears.

“Benjen,” he started to speak but the Kingsguard whirled on him.

_“Not. Another. Word.”_

His voice was low, but it still made Jon jump back, the intensity in that voice overwhelming.

Again, the Lannister came to his aid. “Careful there, Ser Benjen. Don’t forget your vows, and what happens to any who dare to strike one of the royal blood, family or not.”

Benjen rounded on Lord Tyrion. “Don’t even _think_ of trying to tell me my duties, Lannister!”

“A man who denies wisdom because he dislikes they who speak it is doomed to a lifetime of foolishness, ser.” Tyrion gave him a bow from his horse, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“My lord.” Jon spoke up, ignoring the look his uncle shot at him. Tyrion turned to look at him. “Thank you. If you hadn’t helped…”

“Yes, lucky for all of us that I decided to come to Ten Towers today after all.” Tyrion sighed. “No thanks are needed, my prince. If things had gone any further, I expect House Stark and Lannister would be at war before the moon’s turn, with your father caught in the middle. Bad for everyone concerned.”

The Imp motioned towards the two children. “Take the boy, too. Consider him a gift, from the heir of Casterly Rock to a scion of House Targaryen.”

Lord Tyrion turned and started riding back to his men. He stopped when Jon called out to him.

“Lord Tyrion. They say a Lannister always pays their debts.”

“We do, whatever the debt might be.”

Jon’s head had cleared, and his voice was strong as he spoke. “A good prince always pays his debts as well. I swear, I will not forget.”

Lord Tyrion looked at Jon thoughtfully, his mismatched eyes searching Jon’s as if he were looking for something. Then he smiled.

“Nor will I, Prince Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will jump forward about two weeks, taking us to the fall of Pyke and the end of the Greyjoy rebellion. After that, only a couple chapters or so will be left before we get to the beginning of AGOT
> 
> For those who have been waiting, thank you for your patience, please put up with my detour for a little while longer.


	14. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knight awaits battle, and observes the casualties of war.

** Barristan **

The waiting was always the hardest part.

Barristan thoughts were dark as he scanned the men scrambling ahead of him. Most of them were common, pulled from farms or slums to labor for the soldiers and knights in the campaign. The mud they were in coated their clothes and features. The knights and highborn refrained from entering this section of the camp unless necessary.

Most of them, anyway.

“Come on, pull them up! Break it down, down I say!”

Tarly’s face was red as he bellowed orders to the men around him. They all hastened to obey, though Barristan could not tell if it was for eagerness or fear. _Both, more as like._

The catapults were not as obedient, unfortunately. They were large and cumbersome, and the mud made by the squall the day before made moving them all the harder. Some had argued for keeping them on the dryer ground further back, but Tarly had been adamant. He insisted that the catapults would be closer and more destructive, and that the sooner a breach was made, the sooner the men would be out of the filth.

_Trading filth for battle. Hardly a fair trade for most men._

The other commanders had agreed as well. The ironborn were on the backfoot, and they could not be allowed to regain any initiative. That was why the camp had been set so close to Pyke’s gatehouse- to add urgency to their task, and to remind their foes of the Stranger’s approach. Only a fool would think that the ironmen had any chance of victory.

Not that they hadn’t been trying. Arrows continued to fly towards the men, occasionally hitting one. Their shrieks and cries tended to cut off quickly, depending on the severity of their wounds and the patience of the men around the injured. Balon Greyjoy fought on, even when most men in his position would have asked for terms by now.

_Many would call that madness, though a few might call it honorable._

“Ser!” Barristan turned to see a man in royal colors jog up to him. He was red in face, but there was an eagerness in his expression. “His Grace wants to know how the siege is coming along.”

“Tell him that it won’t be long now,” Barristan replied. “The engines are all set and have been firing at the gatehouse all day. Pyke is old, its stones worn and cracked. Creating a breach is a matter of when, not if.”

“Aye, ser.” The man turned to go when Barristan spoke again. “How does the king seem?”

“Tired, ser,” the youth’s face darkened at that, “but stubborn. He’d be directing the siege hisself, save for that iron maester Stark brought from Lordsport.”

 _Thank the Seven for Eddard Stark, then._ “Thank you. As you were.”

Barristan stretched as the man jogged back the way he came. Though his eyes had turned back towards Pyke, his thoughts were wandering to the king.

Rhaegar had been unconscious for two days after clashing with the Iron Fleet. Most had thought him at death’s door, though Arthur insisted that had never been the case. In the end, the king had woken just as the ships came in view of Pyke, an omen well received by all present.

The other forces hadn’t been informed of what had happened until they had finished with Great Wyk and Harlaw and joined the king’s command on Pyke proper. Tarly had been furious when he learned what had transpired, while the lord’s Tyrell, Tully, and Lannister had all voiced their concerns about the king’s health. Stark hadn’t said a word on the matter, and still hadn’t so far as Barristan knew.

For now, the king was conscious and aware of his surroundings. Capable of command, yet still too ill to don armor and enter the fray itself. A fact that relieved just as many men as it distressed. Barristan was of the former. _One brush with death is enough for a single rebellion, so far as king’s go._

He had been furious when he’d learned of the duel between Rhaegar and Maron Greyjoy. “This is why we should have kept the children with the king,” he had growled at Ser Arthur, “If I and Ser Benjen had been with you, that scum would never have come close to the king.”

“Perhaps, but what’s done is done, and the king’s will was clear,” Dayne had replied, “it is not our place to question it, then or now.”

A shout brought Barristan back to the present. The men around him were shouting, their activity taking on a new energy as they did. He scanned their faces, then looked at the castle. Dust was starting to rise from the southern wall, and the men at the engines saw it, hastening to shift the catapults pointed elsewhere and reload the ones already doing so.

Tarly saw it too. “There we go! Concentrate there! The team who finishes the job will have first choice of their larders!”

The Lord of Horn Hill turned to glance at Barristan. “Tell the sortie groups to prepare themselves. I want men in there before the rubble finishes settling."

“My lord.” Barristan nodded before turning and striding down the line. To his left the catapults continued to reload and fire, while on his other side men were gathering. _Sortie groups be damned, once that wall is down, half the fools here will charge the place, to sooner go home or grab plunder, depending on the man._

There was a third sort as well. Barristan noted the banners and shields with the heraldry of knights and lords alongside the common men. The king had promised to knight the first man into the breach, and that whoever brought Balon Greyjoy low would have a hundred acres and a holdfast.

_Not the stuff of songs, but it will make heroes of many who would otherwise hang back._

He had reached the sortie groups. The men within had been charged with clearing any breach of defenders for the rest of the host and had been preparing for two days. Hardly enough time by any standard, but the siege had gone swiftly, as many things had over the course of the campaign.

One of the men was just leaving his tent when he saw Barristan walking towards them. “Head’s up, men! A true knight approaches!”

Thoros of Myr’s smile was stained red, wine fresh on his breath as he continued, “Thank you, ser, for honoring us with your presence! How can we be of service?”

The red priest chuckled at that. His armor was piecemeal, though the steel was strong. His red clothes were visible beneath it, while his cloak covered his back. Barristan scanned him quickly before raising his voice to the men before him.

“Listen up! It looks like the gatehouse’s southern wall will fall soon! Tarly wants us advancing before the ironmen have a chance to plug the gap with bodies!”

“We know that, ser.” a voice rose above the men’s chatter. It belonged to a man dressed like a knight, a black bear rearing across his breastplate. “Tarly said as much when he chose us.”

“It bears repeating.” Barristan turned to look at the speaker. “Mormont, you’ve been given charge of a company. Remember that they will pay the price of any complacency on your part.”

The Kingsguard turned before the northman could answer. “Move out! I want you all waiting just behind the southern section’s engines before that wall comes down!”

Yells and cheers rose as the group surged forward, passing Barristan to head for their positions. Thoros remained, however, still smiling at the knight.

“You know,” the priest slurred, “a Kingsguard would be welcome company when we go in. Might be I could show you a few tricks to win a fight, show an old knight some new tricks.”

 _Old knight? Does he take me for a dotard?_ “His Grace has commanded me to hold back and await his order to advance. I have no doubt that the men will acquit themselves well.”

“Oh, that we will. The one’s who make it, at least.” Thoros laughed as he walked past Barristan. “Good luck, ser. See you in there, or in hell.”

Barristan rolled his eyes as the red priest walked after the other men. _I doubt we’d go to the same hell, damned as we both are._

The Kingsguard turned and walked away from the engines, and from Pyke. It was high time he returned to his charge.

He did not have to go far. The prince’s tents had been placed next to the king, and the king had insisted on being placed as close to the castle without being in danger. The result had been for Rhaegar and his sons much closer to the catapults than all the others had liked, though not close enough for either of the princes.

The royal tents’ black and red cloth were easy enough to spot. They were smaller versions of those the royal family had used on the journey from King’s Landing to Lannisport. War demanded utility, though, and the king hadn’t complained about having to reduce his own quarter’s. Neither had his sons, though that likely stemmed from theirs’ being the same size as before. Two young boys did not need much room, even those with royal blood.

While their accommodations had not changed, the same couldn’t be said of the princes themselves. Aegon was as talkative as ever, but where once he spoke of princes and knights he now talked of battles and conflict. He also seemed more respectful of their foe, his disdain of the ironmen fading as he observed the war around him. Barristan thought that a good thing, for a man who did not underestimate his foes was harder to beat and likely to love longer.

His brother was another matter entirely. Jon had always been quieter than Aegon, and less cheerful in nature, but events had changed him, drastically so. His quiet had become brooding, and his gaze was colder than Barristan had ever seen before. While the prince insisted that he was the same as before, both Lord Stark and the king thought the changes concerning.

The Lord Commander had thought the same, though Jon’s father and uncle had not liked the knight’s words. “The prince acts less as he did before because the boy in him has died, at least a little,” Arthur had told the king in private. “Your Grace, the war has done that, and it cannot be undone. All we may do is shield him from more of the same, until it cannot be avoided.”

Rhaegar had looked ready to strike his old friend after hearing that. His rage at what Jon had witnessed had been fierce, directed at all from Benjen Stark to the Mountain to Tyrion Lannister to Lord Tywin to Lord Eddard. In the end, only word that the princes would be reunited with him soon had managed to lift him out of his black mood.

_It was as if another man stood before us…one whom the king has sworn never to become._

The Kingsguard shook his head as he walked. His goal was near.

Barristan arrived at the tents not five minutes after leaving the front line. Men stood in front of both, nodding at the Kingsguard’s approach. One of the guards pointed at the kings. Needing no other sign, Barristan ducked into the tent.

He was surprised at the sight that greeted him. The two princes were seated in the middle of the tent, while the king lay on his side next to them. Arthur was on one knee beside Prince Aegon. They were all focusing on something in-between them, which Barristan recognized as a map. A pretty thing, it had illustration of the Iron Islands along with the coasts of the North, riverlands, and westerlands.

But it was none of that which surprised Barristan. It was the other children in the tent. The boy and girl were dressed in well-made but common clothing, eyes wide as they stared at the map as well. They had a common look, with brown hair and hazel eyes, with some freckles peppering their faces. The two were seated next to Jon, as they had often been over the last few days. It seemed everywhere the prince went, they did as well. This was the first time that Barristan had seen them in the king’s quarters though.

_What does the king mean by bringing them in here?_

“Barristan.” The knight turned his head to find Benjen Stark standing next to him, watching the gathering in front of him. The man’s voice was quiet, so as not to interrupt the king as he addressed the children.

“Ser Benjen,” he whispered, “what are they…?”

“Jon asked if they could meet His Grace, who said he’d gladly speak with them.”

Barristan smiled.  “I still find it incredible that they’ve come this far. I did not think that Lord Stark would have enough interest to bring them from Harlaw.”

“Ned?” Benjen chuckled at that. “Ned would’ve handed them off to someone else back on that damned island. No, Jon’s the one who insists that they stay, and no one has dared tell him otherwise.”

Barristan laughed at that. Benjen told him and Arthur about what had happened on the road to Ten Towers. After berating him for letting the prince get ahead of him and challenge a man like Gregor Clegane, the Lord Commander had _smiled._ “A wise man once told me that there are few things as frightening as the anger of a gentle man. His Grace has proven that true many times. It is the same with Prince Jon, I think.”

If anyone had been frightened, it had been Benjen, not the Mountain, as the northmen ruefully acknowledged himself. And they had all agreed that such actions on the part of a boy who had yet to see his eighth nameday were not to be encouraged.

And yet, Barristan could not make himself feel anything besides respect for the prince’s actions. Most agreed that Prince Aegon could be as fierce as a dragon when roused, but few ever said that of his younger brother. Prince Jon had proven them wrong, even if they did not know it yet. And more than courage, his actions had demonstrated compassion, a trait many thought that too few highborn possessed.

“Ser.” Barristan returned from his thoughts as the king’s voice rose to address him. “Excuse us, I was just showing my son’s companions where they’ve been living for the past year. Do you bring word from Tarly?”

“Not directly, Your Grace.” Barristan straightened as he spoke. “It looks like the southern section will fall soon. The men are getting ready.”

“Good.” Rhaegar smiled, though there was more relief than joy in it. “This will be over soon, if the gods are generous.”

“Father, why haven’t the Greyjoy’s yielded yet?” Aegon’s expression was puzzled as he spoke. “Ser Willas said the man was mad, is that why?”

“I’d call it arrogance, not madness.” Rhaegar’s grin was gone, frowning as he addressed his heir. “Ironmen have a tradition of refusing to end their rebellions until their leader is either dead or captured. Balon Greyjoy insists on seeing this through, and making sure we pay for our efforts.”

The king gestured towards Barristan. “It was much the same way at Duskendale, as Ser Barristan can attest to.”

Barristan was surprised by the path the king’s thoughts had come to. _Is it the fate of the town that draws his mind? Or of the lord whose folly brought his house to ruin?_

Those were different times. Rhaegar had barely reached manhood when Denys Darklyn seized his father and imprisoned him within the Dun Fort. Tywin Lannister had led the half-year siege as Hand, while the young prince had looked on with sadness and fear. He had been joined by many others, waiting to see the end of the Defiance.

That had been Barristan’s finest moment. His exploits had made him a legend and won him the admiration and respect of every soul in the Seven Kingdoms. Even Aerys had seemed to keep faith with Barristan, even as he marched with Rhaegar to face the rebel host.

_And then the wheel turned. And a hero became a villain._

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Barristan found himself saying, “though I pray that this does not end as the Defiance did.”

Rhaegar looked at him, a slight frown coming across his features as he looked Barristan in the eye. The king’s gaze held no anger, more confusion and what seemed to be exasperation. Barristan guessed that he did not like having his father’s actions dragged up in these circumstances. _He cannot be blamed for that,_ the Kingsguard thought.

Before the king could respond, a noise broke through the air- a rumbling, like thunder in a still-distant storm. Then the ground began trembling with it. The two commoners grew pale at it, though Rhaegar and his sons both turned to look towards the tent’s entrance. Towards the castle.

Benjen poked his head out of the tent to see clearly. The grin on his face when he returned confirmed what Barristan and the royal’s suspected. “Your Grace, it looks like the gatehouse’s southern wall is coming down. The men are already moving to enter the breach.”

“Good.” Rhaegar grimaced as he shifted to a sitting position, then slowly stood. The princes stood as well, putting themselves at their father’s sides. Barristan caught the glance between them as they did so. _They wish to help the king. That is promising, for now and for the future._

The king addressed Benjen. “Remind Tarly to give the first wave as much support as possible. Don’t push inward, secure the area around the gate and open it for the rest of the men.”

“At once, Your Grace.” Stark gave a quick bow before turning to leave the tent. Barristan suspected the man was like as not to find some excuse to charge in himself. Not that he could blame Benjen. The older knight had half a mind to do the same.

“Your Grace, perhaps we should send someone to find Ser Benjen’s older brother,” said Arthur, rising to stand next to the king. “Stark and the other lords will be anxious to see Greyjoy’s surrender or beheading, once the castle is taken. The sooner they can be on their way, the less resentful they will be.”

“We all want to go home, Arthur,” the king replied, “no one more so than I, believe that. The beginning is a delicate time. The peace must be won, or else another war is certain.”

“Father.” Barristan’s gaze went to Aegon as his father looked down at him. “The ironmen have rebelled before, but the peace never stayed. They always tried again. Will this time be different?”

Rhaegar sighed heavily. Moments went by. Finally, the king said, “I don’t know, Aegon. Some think not. Some, like Lord Tywin, would have me order these islands scourged, the people cleared away so that a new beginning can be had. They insist that even the longest and most fruitful of peace’s have been borne out of sorrow and conflict. That it is for the _greater good_.”

The king spoke those last words as if they were bitter in his mouth. His eyes were fixed on something only he could see, in the back of the tent. His face was a mask, a dark mockery of the prince that brought tears to the eye of those who word his song. In his place, for a moment, a different king stood where Rhaegar did, one whose eyes burned like fire.

And then it passed.

In an instant, the shadows seemed to vanish. The king shook himself, before smiling down at his heir. He ruffled his hair affectionately. “But it is up to us to prove them wrong. We cannot let ourselves think that we should not do the right thing, even if it seems hard, or even impossible. For that is where good ends and evil begins.”

Aegon nodded, smiling up at his father. Jon was smiling as well, a rare sight. The king glanced up to look at Barristan. “Find Lord Tarly. Tell him that any common ironborn who surrenders is to be kept alive. Once that is done, you and Stark have my permission to enter the fray.”

“End this, Ser Barristan, so that we may make a new beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter before we come to where AGOT starts. Thanks for waiting, hope you enjoy.


	15. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen receives news, and reflects on her king's choices.

** Elia **

Elia rubbed Balerion affectionately, smiling as the black cat stretched under her hands. She had moved her chair to be in the sunlight, and Balerion seemed to appreciate it. She doubted the light orange dress she wore would survive if his mood changed, but for the moment he was content. Of late, Balerion had been visiting her chambers more and more often. She wasn’t sure why, though she suspected that Rhaenys’ growing absences had something to do with it.

Recently, Elia’s daughter had been spending more and more time leaving the Red Keep, to ride in the kingswood or visit one of the city market’s or take a pleasure barge onto the Blackwater. All the while, she was accompanied by at least one Kingsguard, as well as her cousins and the courtiers who always found an excuse to accompany them.

Elia could only advise her daughter to adapt when she came to complain. “You are the king’s daughter, and for all the blessings that entails, responsibility comes with it. One such is the power you wield, and the way that people will flock to it. Some will seek to serve you and your family, others will wish to use you to advance their own interests, some will try to do both. Knowing who is which and acting accordingly is something you must learn.”

So far, the results had been mixed. Rhaenys had always been accustomed to attention, but of late had been growing more and more irritated as part of the court seemed to make a lifestyle of following her. While she could be patient when she wished, Elia had heard stories of Rhaenys sending flustered ladies and humiliated squires from her sight when the cloyingness had grown too much. Her Dornish kin found it all amusing, while Elia could only do her best to remind Rhaenys to keep her head as often as possible.

Balerion suddenly shifted in her lap. The cat turned onto his belly, his eyes going to the chamber’s door while his ears rose. Elia’s gaze followed his, where sure enough a knock came from. She stood, Balerion meowing in protest as she placed him at her feet, leaping onto the bed as Elia crossed the chamber to open the door.

Oberyn was waiting outside, standing a few feet from the door. Between them was Ser Humfrey, the Kingsguard assigned to her while Lewyn looked after Daenerys and Ser Arys after Rhaenys, respectively. Her brother looked concerned, though it seemed to dissipate as he saw her. “Elia, you look rested. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Not at all, Balerion and I were just enjoying the sunlight.” Elia looked at him, puzzled as his appearance. “Is something the matter?”

His smile faded in part at the question. “The Hand- well, the small council asks that you join them.”

“What?” Lord Arryn and other members of the council had asked after her advice and opinion on some matters, but this was the first they’d invited her to join them in the chamber itself. “What brought this on?”

“A letter from Pyke, Elia.”

Her good mood was gone in an instant. There hadn’t been word from Rhaegar himself since he had departed Lannisport. What word had come to the capital had been from Ser Arthur Dayne, other lords, or simply as gossip. The last news they had received had come three days ago, a raven from Casterly Rock announcing the fall of Pyke and capture of Balon Greyjoy. While the capital had erupted in celebration, many at court had been concerned about what the letter had not said- namely, its lack of words on the king or any of the other royal family in the west.

It was with the latter that Elia’s thoughts were with now. By all accounts, Aegon had been well all the while he had been in the west. Nevertheless, fear for him and for his father had always been present in Elia’s mind.

 _Though none such for the others, though,_ a voice in her head whispered.

She brushed the though aside. “Well then, take me there, Oberyn. I doubt the council will appreciate any delay.”

“You’re sure-”

“ _Yes_ , Oberyn. Let’s be on our way.”

Her brother nodded before turning and walking down the hall. Elia followed close behind, while Ser Humfrey came right behind her.

“Do you know anything the letter said?”, Elia asked.

“Some of it. Greyjoy has bent the knee and sworn fealty to the Iron Throne. The man had the nerve to say his rebellion was _not_ a rebellion, as he never swore fealty to Rhaegar when he became king. Apparently, his surviving son has been taken hostage as well.”

That part did not surprise Elia. Men who committed treason rarely lived long, and those that did usually yielded their kin to deter them from repeating that mistake. She nodded as Oberyn noted that other ironmen houses would be yielding hostages as well.

Oberyn’s next words caught her off guard. “The king also seems to be recovering well. Good to-”

“What do you mean ‘recovering’?” Elia stopped and rounded on her brother. Oberyn looked unusually abashed at the look on her face, and shame was written across his. “Oberyn, was Rhaegar injured?”

“I don’t know if I-”

“You are not just talking to your sister about her husband, Oberyn, but to a queen of her king. Now, tell me whatever you’ve been hiding from me or I’ll send you back to Sunspear.”

“As if anyone could _send_ me anywhere.” Despite his words, her brother looked resigned. “You know that Rhaegar’s fleet fought a battle before landing on Pyke. Well, during the fighting he dueled with one of Greyjoy’s sons. He killed the man but took some hard hits during the fighting. Then, he collapsed back on his ship. He didn’t wake for two days.”

The last words rang in Elia’s mind. _Two days? Two days and no one told me?_ “Who ordered the secret kept? And who knew of it?”

“Dayne was the one who ordered it. Only he, Ser Barristan, the ship’s captain, and the maester knew until after Rhaegar had already awoken.”

Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for Oberyn reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “He probably didn’t wish to discourage the soldiers or worry you or any other family about his condition.”

Elia sighed. “Oberyn, you know there was a time when I never thought Rhaegar would keep something from me, especially something so important. It makes me wonder what could have been.”

Oberyn laughed as they started walking again. “Only fools or maester’s trouble themselves with what could have been, Elia. It happened as it did, and there’s no helping that. Don’t you think so, Hightower?”

The young Kingsguard looked caught off-guard by Oberyn’s question. “I suppose so, Prince Oberyn. My lord father always said to learn from the past, to help guide the future.”

“That’s common wisdom,” her brother observed.

The knight blushed. Elia decided to aid him. “Common wisdom is still wisdom, Oberyn.”

“I suppose it is.”

A thought struck Elia. “If it isn’t about him, then what about our son? Has any harm come to Aegon?!”

“No, not at all!” The quickness of his reply helped reassure her. “My nephew is well, along with his brother and uncle.”

Elia frowned at the mentions of the others. If she wished to know of them, she would ask. Oberyn ought to know that by now.

They had reached the throne room by then. Elia’s pace quickened as she turned from the Iron Throne itself to head towards the small council chamber, with Oberyn and Ser Humfrey matching her pace. Even now, Elia preferred to spend as little time as possible in this place, rarely doing so except for events concerning her personally.

As she entered the small council chamber itself, the present members all stood. Half the chairs were empty, making the room appear larger than it normally did. The king was gone, of course, along with Jon Connington, master of laws, and Ser Arthur, the Kingsguard’s Lord-Commander, both accompanying him to the campaign. The master of ships, Lord Redwyne, was also absent, having sailed the royal fleet to the Arbor with the intent of combining with his own and meeting Rhaegar in the west. He had done so but became ill in Lannisport. Elia didn’t know if he had recovered enough to join Rhaegar at Pyke.

She gazed at the remaining members before her. Lord Arryn looked as old as ever, though he could move as fast as Ser Humfrey when he wished.  The Hand smiled at her, one of the few she found to be genuine at court. He kept his mouth closed as he did, disguising the fact that many of his teeth were no longer there. He was still broad of shoulder, and his blue eyes were as sharp as one of the falcons that graced his house’s sigil. Of the small council, Arryn was the member that asked after her thoughts most and was most like to act on them.

Beside him sat the Grand Maester. Pycelle was also old, though the years sat on him well. A great white beard that he cultivated carefully hung almost to his belt, and his expression was kindly as he bowed. Despite that, Elia knew better than to trust him completely. Oberyn believed Pycelle was for House Lannister more than the crown, and his history with Lord Tywin lent credence to that suspicion. For all that, the old maester served ably, and often asked after the health of the royal family.

On the other side of the table were two men she did not trust at all. Opposite Lord Arryn was Varys, the eunuch bowing deeply at the sight of Elia. He had remained master of whisperers against her and Oberyn’s wishes, but Rhaegar had argued that killing him was unnecessary, and that to attempt it and fail would have consequences that were best avoided. Elia had reluctantly conceded the point, and since the king’s coronation Varys had acted as loyally as any other man. Not that it eased anyone’s suspicions of the Spider.

The last man in the chamber was not on the small council at all. Seated next to the master of whisperers was a young man with dark hair and a pointed beard. His smile had always been to clever for Elia to be comfortable with, and the rumors of the man’s ventures had not endeared him to her. Oberyn thought him funny, while Rhaenys thought him smug. Yet all agreed that the man was cunning, if nothing else.

Petyr Baelish had come to the capital just a year passed, brought by Lord Arryn after skillfully overseeing Gulltown’s customs and tolls. The master of coin, Lord Gyles Rosby, had a cough that had been getting much worse over the past year, and the Hand had suggested that Baelish be employed to ease the ill lord’s work. As of late, Baelish was present at more council meetings than Rosby, and was openly whispered to be the man most like to be named master of coin should the current one resign or perish.

“Your Grace,” Lord Arryn spoke, bringing her attention back to him, “thank you for joining us. I hope we did not overstep in asking you here.”

“Not at all, Lord Arryn,” Elia replied as she walked forward to sit, choosing the chair between him and the Grand Maester. “And I hope I did not interrupt, I know that there are a great many things the council must see to in these dark times.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Pycelle intoned, his voice slow. “In fact, we were just finishing with the details for the upcoming celebration of the fall of Pyke. I am sure Prince Oberyn has informed you of His Grace’s victory over the ironmen, and the end of this ignoble rebellion.”

Elia frowned. “The former yes, but not so the latter.” She turned towards her brother, who was still standing behind her. “I expect you had good reason to do so?”

“Yes,” Oberyn replied, “the reason was the rebellion is _not_ over, not truly. Even now, reavers are still being sighted on the coast, and the ironmen have a habit of forgetting what happens when they rebel every generation or so. I’m tempted to take wagers on when their next rebellion will be, and who will lead it, seeing as Greyjoy failed.”

“Fifty dragons that it takes at least thirty years, my prince.” Baelish’s eyes were sparking, amusement on his face as he spoke. “And fifty again that it won’t be a Greyjoy leading it.”

“You have a bet, Littlefinger.”

 _Littlefinger? That’s a name I haven’t heard before._ Elia glanced back at Oberyn, who winked before shaking his head. He’d tell her more of it later, that much she knew.

“My lords, if we might return to our work,” Varys said airily, “I doubt the queen has come to listen to us wager on peace and war like this. Many would say that we have all seen more than our fair share of conflict in the last several years.”

The eunuch tittered at that. He was the only one. Baelish excepted, all the others in the room were glaring at him, Elia included. _Does he truly think that funny? Or does he merely enjoy provoking those around him?_

After a moment, Lord Arryn cleared his throat. “Yes, Lord Varys is right. I believe that you have reports from across the Narrow Sea.”

“Yes, my little birds have been singing to me from distant places. Apparently a _khalasar_ is making its way toward Norvos, led by the son of a recently deceased Dothraki warlord. In Pentos, there is talk among its magisters of hiring one to aid them in shaking off the yoke of Braavos, though there are always-”

“If I may, Lord Varys,” Elia interjected. The eunuch pouted but fell silent as she turned towards the Hand. “Apologies, Lord Arryn, but I did not come here to listen to news from Essos. Prince Oberyn informed me that there had been a letter received from my husband the king, and if that is so, then I wish to know what it said, and why I was not informed of it sooner.”

Lord Arryn looked uncomfortable. _There is something that he does not wish to tell me,_ Elia realized. The Hand replied, “Of course, Your Grace, I just thought it best if other business could not be seen to beforehand. I did not wish for the letter to take all of the council’s energies.”

“A sound idea. Yet if the king’s word is concerned, then clearly it takes precedence.” Elia’s voice was polite but cool, and Lord Arryn accepted the subtle rebuke with a bow of his head.

Arryn motioned to Pycelle, who reached into his robe and produced two different parchments. While they both bore the king’s three-headed dragon seal, only one had been opened. That one he put on the table and slid towards Arryn, who reached out to take it. Elia could practically feel Oberyn tense behind her, anger stirring at their implied disrespect. Elia shot him a quick look, warning him not to voice it. _Better they condescend then deliberately obstruct me. Then again, they are probably doing so anyway._

“This letter was written to the Hand, who informed the council of it just before you arrived,” Pycelle intoned. His hand held up the other message, presenting it to Elia. “This was written to Your Grace and has not been opened.”

Elia took the letter but made no effort to open it. She turned back towards Arryn. “What does His Grace wish the council to know?”

“First, he made us aware of the ironmen’s surrender, or at least their nobles doing so. As Prince Oberyn mentioned, there are still reavers on the Sunset Sea, though it is expected that they will either return home or else flee before too long. Other than a number of soldiers from the westerlands and the Trident, our forces are all preparing to return home.”

Despite her unease, Elia was relieved to hear that. “That is good to hear. King’s Landing has been too long without the king and his heir. It will be good to have them back. Perhaps we could plan a feast or other celebration for their return, to honor His Grace and his kin.”

Arryn gaze went to the table at that, and Elia’s relief went with it. “I am afraid that the king will not be returning with all he took with him, Your Grace.”

Baelish spoke at that. “His Grace has seen fit to assign his brother to the care of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Some might think it wiser to give Prince Viserys to a pit viper, but the king has chosen differently.”

“Lord Tywin has always been an able and loyal servant to the Iron Throne,” Pycelle rebuked the younger man.

“Right up until he marched on this city with an army. And the gates opened for him, strangely. I wonder who might have advised Aerys-”

“Enough, Petyr. Such bickering is of no use to anyone. The prince will be remaining in the west, it is done and cannot be changed without provoking House Lannister, which will not be considered.” Arryn’s eyes went to Elia again. “As for the king’s younger son, he will not be returning with His Grace either. Lord Stark has been granted the wardship of Prince Jon for the foreseeable future and will take him to Winterfell.”

Elia’s breath caught for a moment. _Rhaegar, is it truly so?_

She realized that the Hand was still looking at her. So were all the others in the room. She drew a breath before addressing them, “If that is His Grace’s command, and Lord Stark had no objection, then it must be so.”

“Yes,” said Arryn, eyes never leaving Elia’s face, “I happen to know that Lord Stark has been hoping to spend more time with his nephew. This decision is undoubtedly a wise one, I’m sure most will agree.”

Elia nodded her head. “Of course, the wisdom of this is plain to see. Though I rather suspect that Aegon will not take it well. He is always insisting that he wishes to go on off on adventures, and hearing that his kin will be going to live with and learn from such great lords will likely irritate him to no end.”

Lord Arryn’s face had remained calm during this. Now shame came upon it, to Elia’s surprise. “Your Grace, I am afraid the king has decided that Prince Aegon will not be returning for long.”

Elia’s heart skipped a beat. For a few moments, everything ceased, all noise and sight and sensation. And while it did, a single thought raged in her mind, echoing more and more loudly until it felt as if her skull would burst as it raged forth- _Rhaegar, what have you done?_

Lord Arryn was still speaking, words about the Reach and the noble houses there, of how the king and his heir would return for the capital for a time before the latter departed, of how many details involving Aegon’s wardship had yet to be arranged. But Elia did not hear them, not truly.

She lurched to her feet. “My lords, I must attend to other matters. Please carry on without me.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked towards the door, wrenching her shoulder away when Oberyn tried to place his hand on it, the letter Pycelle had given her crushed in her grasp.

Her body was moving on its own, acting on instinct to take her elsewhere. Her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on a memory that was now playing itself out before her eyes, as if it hadn’t already happened.

It had been the night before he left when she had confronted Rhaegar. He had seemed confused when she’d asked for leave to speak plainly, but puzzlement had given way to shock as she had begun.

“Your son cannot return with you, Rhaegar,” Elia had been quiet but firm, her eyes hard as she stared into his, “I will not have it, no longer.”

“What has come over you?” Disbelief and pain had been apparent in Rhaegar’s voice, as if to undermine her determination. It did not do so, indeed it had only served to steel her further. Her husband had attempted to continue but Elia had cut him off.

“You have insisted that my son and your brother will accompany you, along with _him_. They cannot return together, not if you wish for me to remain in King’s Landing.”

“Are you-” Rhaegar’s face had grown hard as well, the pain vanishing as if he had pulled a veil over his features. “Jon is as much Targaryen as any of his siblings, or mine, or me.”

“He may be, but he is not _my_ son. You have raised him alongside my children for seven years, Rhaegar, seven more than any mother should have to raise the child of her husband’s lover.”

“I have told you, we said our-”

“ _I am not speaking of your vows, damn you_!!” Elia had shouted those words, forcing Rhaegar to swallow his as her anger burst forth for the first time. “When we first wed, I knew that you did not love me, despite the vows we shared. How could you, when we barely knew each other? I thought that with time love could be forged, especially if children came of it. And when Rhaenys and then Aegon were born, you did grow warmer. But there was never love.”

“But then you found it didn’t you, Rhaegar? Not with me, but with a woman you had _never_ met, had hardly even _heard of_! And you and she rode off and left while I and _your children_ lingered in the shadow of your father, who was always of half-a-mind to kill at least one of us! All for _Lyanna Stark_!”

Rhaegar had grown paler as she spoke, but his face flushed then, eyes flashing at her words. Yet he had not spoken, allowing Elia to release her words, to let her rage surge outwards.

“ _We_ faced the consequences of _your_ actions, along with the _rest_ of the Seven Kingdoms! And when it was all over, after your _daughter and son_ had been forced to flee through the Sack of King’s Landing and _I_ had nearly been fed to your father’s flames, only _then_ did you see to us. Before sending Eddard Stark to see to his sister, _the woman you started a war for!”_

Elia’s had stopped shouting then, but her voice had carried on, a whisper that the wind could have obscured. It had been silent though, so her husband heard her.

“And she died. As if the gods were writing a song themselves, the woman who ended the Mad King’s reign died in the birthing bed. But not without giving the new king a son, one whom he then _brought back_ to raise as his own.”

“I am Dornish, some whispered. They are strange about marriage and bastards, they said. Perhaps the king brings him because he knows she does not mind raising his son by another woman alongside her own. Well, I _am_ Dornish, Rhaegar, and do not fault children for their parent’s actions. I would not have said a word had the boy been given to the Faith, or the Citadel, or even sent to live with his mother’s kin, in the gray wastes of the North. But you insisted he be raised _here,_ alongside my _children_ , the ones who nearly _died_ so that he might be born.”

“ _No longer_. Send your other son elsewhere, be it Winterfell, or Oldtown, or Asshai-by-the-Shadow. But do not bring him back to live with _our_ children.”

She had stopped speaking then. She had more words, more she wished to throw at her husband, to make him see what he had done, to her and their children and even to _himself_. But the rage that had sustained her had burned itself out, leaving her shaking with the force of it.

For what seemed like an eternity, Rhaegar had looked at her, sorrow and anguish in his gaze. Finally, he had spoken, in a voice that broken by pain and sadness. His words had confused and angered her, but he had turned and left their chambers before she could respond.

_“I wish that you could understand, Elia.”_

That had been the last time Elia and Rhaegar had said a word to each other before he and the others had left for the west. She had not regretted saying them.

And now, she was being heeded. The son of Lyanna Stark would not be returning with Aegon, Rhaegar had given her that. But while he gave with one hand, her husband had taken with the other.

And once more the cry rang in her mind, strong enough that it left her lips, though only as a whisper.

“ _Rhaegar, what have you done?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two things-
> 
> First, I am sorry but I decided that the next chapter will actually be the last before we get to AGOT. I had originally intended to write the final chapter from the POV of someone on Pyke, to wrap up the Greyjoy rebellion more neatly. While that is still going to be the case, this idea came into my head and I just had to follow through.
> 
> Secondly, know that I had originally intended only to write one or two chapters for both Rhaegar and Elia, and neither were intended to be major POV characters, and still aren't. That said, as the story went on (especially when we saw from both Jon and Rhaenys' view) it didn't feel right to leave them as I originally intended to. So, I decided that the Queen and King would be the ones to close out the Greyjoy arc.
> 
> So, please forgive my delays, and enjoy this chapter. The next will be Rhaegar's POV wrapping up the Greyjoy Rebellion, but do know- the next chapter will be the last time that either he or Elia will be a POV (probably).


	16. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewell's are shared, and promises made.

** Rhaegar **

“The lad hasn’t said a word since we took him, Your Grace.” Benjen didn’t seem worried at that, his voice matter-of-fact as he spoke. “I suppose it makes sense, after your brothers die and your father sells you in return for not losing his head.”

Rhaegar frowned slightly as he surveyed the harbor below him. Most of the royal forces had remained outside of Pyke, preferring the safety of their encampment than the relative comfort of the castle, damaged as it was. Now, more and more of them were leaving, either for the mainland or for the other large isles near Pyke. Yet while his eyes watched them depart, his ears were only for Stark now.

The northman's eyes were on him, Rhaegar knew that. Despite his steady recovery, all knew that head injuries had the impact that were hardest to detect. The Kingsguard present had been largely focused on trailing his sons, but Rhaegar knew that they had been watching him closely, watching for any change in his health. _And my behavior, I suspect._

Stark had stopped speaking, awaiting the king’s response. “Time will loosen his tongue,” Rhaegar said tiredly, “time and Prince Aegon. He’s already smiling more, soon my son will have him speaking.”

More and more, Rhaegar found himself observing his heir’s words and actions, searching for strength and weakness alike. While he had always taken care to shield his children from the worst of the world, this campaign had reminded Rhaegar that he was doomed to failure. As he had told Arthur, the time had come to actively prepare them for their futures.

Theon Greyjoy was proving surprisingly helpful in this regard. The lad was a few years older than Aegon which, coupled with the circumstances, Rhaegar had thought would help to keep his sons from interacting with the new ward. Jon was acting as most had expected, avoiding Theon as much as he could, and acting warily when they were near one another. Aegon, on the other hand, had proved more curious than wary, and by now had warmed to Greyjoy.

While some of the lords were against it, Rhaegar approved of his son’s reaction. If future rebellions by the ironmen were to be avoided, it would mean forging ties with them, however reluctant some on both sides would be to make them. A friendship between the heir of Balon Greyjoy and a prince of the Iron Throne would go a long way towards reconciling the crown and the Iron Islands. While Rhaegar doubted that Aegon was thinking along those lines, it made him think diplomacy would not be hard for his heir to learn.

That reminded Rhaegar of something. He turned towards Benjen. “When and where was Lord Tywin’s son the last you saw him?”

“Lord Tyrion? I think he was overseeing the ships that just came from Lannisport.” The knight pointed towards the shore. “Right around there. Do you want me to go fetch him?”

“No,” said Rhaegar, “we’ll go find him.”

“Your Grace, the maester-”

Rhaegar knew where he was going and didn’t let the knight get there. “The maester says many things, Benjen. Such as that the fish near Pyke have too much iron in them and shouldn’t be eaten. Only we need the food, so we eat anyway. Necessity often trumps wisdom, you know this as well as I.”

“So enough about maester’s, ser. I have been all but ordered to bed by a maester or men acting in one’s name ever since we got here. Even my sons treat me as if I might fall over if I am not sitting or lying somewhere. If I wish to improve, that means I’ll need to make my body do things it might not wish to, like any man wishing to grow stronger.”

The knight looked at the king for a few moments, then nodded. “I’ll take the lead, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, but he supposed Stark could be given that much. As they started walking from the cliff’s edge, it made him wonder whether the Kingsguard resented the plans Rhaegar had made. If it had been his to wager, the king would have put all the gold on Casterly Rock on yes.

Thinking of Casterly Rock brought Rhaegar’s thoughts to his brother. From the letters he had received, Viserys did not seem to mind the idea of being a ward to Lord Tywin. That had been an unexpected relief to hear, truth be told. Viserys could be charming when he _tried_ to be and had a fierceness that was worth cultivating. For all that, he lacked the _natural_ charm that Aegon had in spades, and his temper was nigh on impossible to curtail when it was aroused. Rhaegar suspected that Tywin Lannister would have no qualms about disciplining Viserys when he got out of hand and hoped that such discipline would stay with his brother.

By now they had reached the harbor. Some men bowed as the Rhaegar walked by, but many were too busy with their tasks to pay him any mind. Some of noble status may have resented it but the king didn’t mind. Given everything that had happened, Rhaegar expected he and the men shared the same desire- to go home.

True to Benjen’s memory, the young Lannister was directing men and supplies on the waterfront when the king and his companion found him. He was speaking with what looked to be a steward, an older man with a balding head and splotchy skin. Lannister guards standing just a few feet away. One of them noticed Rhaegar’s approach and called his lord’s attention to it. Glancing at Rhaegar, the heir of Casterly Rock bowed quickly, the men around him following suit.

“Your Grace, a pleasure to see you,” Tyrion began. He turned towards the steward. “We’ll pick this up another time, Erryk.” The steward bowed to Rhaegar, then walked away, lips pursed as he did. Lannister smiled as he turned back towards the king. “That man may be a steward, but he knows as much as ships as a blind man knows about sunsets, which is nothing.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “A matter of supplies? Or seaworthiness?”

“Nothing of importance,” the dwarf shrugged. “I doubt you came to speak to me about the state of my father’s ships, valuable as they are. Dare I guess this dragon has flown down to ask after one of his own?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Yes. From what I’ve heard, Viserys is taking well to life at Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin did not voice any concerns about his mood or behavior.”

“Yes, I am sure he hasn’t. The Rock is full of wonders and treasure, enough to sate the curiosity and hunger of any man, even a prince. I am sure he’ll find something to complain about if given enough time.” Tyrion looked at the king carefully as he spoke. “Ser Mandon Moore has been helpful in keeping Your Grace’s brother out of trouble. Will one of his sworn brothers be joining him?”

“No. Including my queen there are seven members of the royal family. There will always be at least one Kingsguard with each of them.”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at that. “Even in Winterfell?”

Rhaegar frowned. “Yes, though I don’t see how that is your concern, Lord Tyrion.”

“The royal family is all of our concern, Your Grace. And given what happened in Lannisport, I suppose guilt at how our own measures to protect the royal family failed has plagued me for some time.”

Benjen spoke at that. “Guilt at the failure of the guards, or of the men who got past them?”

Rhaegar turned his head towards the knight. “Ser, do not imp-”

“Your Grace, if I may.”

Rhaegar looked towards Tyrion, who had bowed his head as he spoke. The Imp’s eyes were looking at Benjen, who was eyeing the dwarf with all the sweetness of a hungry predator. The king hesitated, then nodded.

“Thank you.” Lannister turned to look at the Kingsguard. “I don’t blame you for your suspicion, Stark. You’d be a fool not to at least consider me or my house being a part of the plot. But then, you’d be an even bigger fool to go further than that.”

“Your city. Your servants. Your castle.” Stark growled each word. “Seems fairly straightforward to me.”

“Which is why you should distrust that conclusion. If it is so obvious that House Lannister _must_ have been a party to trying to kill the king’s children, then why would we risk it? Or not, at least, try to make it look less obvious? Any man with a talent for intrigue would think it more likely that someone is attempting to use my family as their decoy, or at least trying to drive a wedge between us and the Iron Throne.”

“I do not have a talent for plots, nor wish to, _my lord_.” The knight’s eyes were cold, his hand on his sword hilt. The Lannister guards mirrored the action, eyeing the knight.

Rhaegar had heard enough. “Though you do have a talent for unsettling armed men, ser.” The knight turned but the king refused to let him defend himself. “I have made my desire plain, yet you continue to indulge yourself despite that. I wished to speak of the future, and you instead dwell on the past. Now, close your mouth and do not use it again until I address you.”

Stark subsided, though the man’s eyes continued to eye the young dwarf in front of him. Lannister sighed as he turned towards the king. “A wary man is a better guard than a trusting one, I suppose.”

“We were speaking of Viserys,” Rhaegar said impatiently. “I wish for Lord Tywin to know that my brother should not be indulged in his whims merely because of his station. If he goes too far in his requests, or attempts to make demands of your father, he is free to discipline him. Excepting physical harm, of course.”

“Of course, else Ser Mandon might need to start relieving men of their hands.” Tyrion smiled. “Your Grace need not worry over my father’s household. He is more than capable of handling a cocksure stripling, even if he is a prince.”

Rhaegar didn’t need to be told that. Every man he had spoken to on the subject had told him much the same. Most thought it a reason _not_ to give Tywin Lannister a royal ward. _Or a hostage, depending on how one looks at it._

Yet he knew that House Lannister could not be ignored. Rhaegar had grown up with Lord Tywin, when the latter was his father’s Hand of the King. The man could be domineering and cold but was one of the most capable lords in the Seven Kingdoms, as well as one of the most dangerous. Rhaegar knew that better than any man living and could not afford to leave Casterly Rock without any ties to the Iron Throne. To do so would guarantee the making of an enemy who could in time be one of the Iron Throne’s greatest assets.

So, the lions would have to be indulged in some parts. Including the needling that Tyrion Lannister was becoming notorious for. “I am aware, Lord Tyrion. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to others who are departing this day.”

The Lannister and his men all bowed as Rhaegar walked past them, Benjen close behind. Rhaegar’s pace had a new energy to it, fueled by anger and worry.

When they were far enough away from the Lannister’s, he stopped and turned towards his Kingsguard. “I told you to _never_ let those besides those you trust what you are thinking. Does my word mean so little to you as it seems?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Stark replied. “It just seemed likely that the Imp already knew where I stood.”

 _He is right about that._ “Perhaps but confirming his suspicions did not help matters.”

The northman frowned as he looked at the sand at his feet. It almost made Rhaegar sorry for his words.

The argument Benjen had given to the young Lannister had been heard before. In Lannisport, just before departing, Rhaegar had summoned him, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan to attend him in his ship. They had discussed what happened, and its potential instigators.

The day before, all had seemed well. The preparations were going smoothly, the various lords and their men were getting along well enough, and the king and his kin had all been treated with the respect and courtesy their station demanded. Nothing of note had occurred. At least, not until supper.

Aegon had grown tired as the meal went on. Jon had been much the same While his sons rarely wished to sleep so soon after eating, Rhaegar had sent them to bed early, instructing Ser Barristan to stay with them as they slept. The knight had collected the two drowsy princes and taken them to their chambers, where Rhaegar expected to see them the next morning.

But that had not happened. Just after the hour of the wolf, Rhaegar had been awoken by the doors to his chamber slamming open. Arthur had sprung to action, Dawn in hand to see to the noise, only for Barristan to walk in, carrying Rhaegar’s sons under his arms. He still held his own blade, and both it and his left arm were dripping with blood. The sight had inspired fear in Rhaegar more than anything he’d seen before and he had only resumed breathing after seeing that his children were unhurt. He had then set the royal household to securing the castle. While Jon and Aegon had been separated at his Kingsguard’s insistence, no second attempt had been made on them.

In the cabin, he and the knights had argued over who the culprit was. Benjen had been quick to point at House Lannister, but both Rhaegar and Arthur doubted it, for the very reasons Tyrion Lannister had stated. In truth, the potential conspirators included many of the lords of the realm, great and small, including those at the royal court. In the end it remained easier to guess who did not have a part in it than who did, and even then, there was no way to be certain.

Rhaegar had commanded that all who knew of it not to speak of it to any save himself and his Kingsguard. Still, word had spread, and while Tyrion Lannister had been quick to realize what had happened, it was only a matter of time until the attempt became common knowledge. Which was part of the reason for his anger with the knight standing before him.

“Perhaps he did,” Rhaegar said, “I doubt the men standing just behind him suspected it or knew anything about the matter until you spoke of it. Now there are five Lannister men who have heard of a conspiracy around events in Lannisport, and I do not care what Tyrion Lannister might say, they _will_ speak of what just occurred.”

Stark grimaced at that. He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes going back down. This time there was no defiance in his stance, just weariness. The king sighed.

“Benjen, you may be right,” Rhaegar acknowledged, “but throwing out accusations like that with no proof rarely has the desired effect. At best, it angers people who are innocent, while at worst it incites the guilty to continue their treachery. Silence may be difficult, but it is the wisest course of action. Let the cowards who attacked the royal family think themselves safe and secure, and they will be more likely to make a mistake.”

Stark sighed and bowed his head. “Of course, Your Grace. When hunting, only a fool runs about the woods, hollering for the prey to come to him.”

Rhaegar smiled at that. “Indeed. Now then, your brother’s ship isn’t that far. Jon will be expecting us to come bid him farewell, so I suggest we start moving.”

The knight nodded. Together they started walking further along the harbor’s waterfront.

As they did, Rhaegar’s gaze went to the water itself. It was dark, reflecting the clouds that hung overhead. _They may call it the Blackwater, but the waters near King’s Landing have never looked this dark that I can recall._

King’s Landing brought Rhaegar’s mind to the family who remained there. From what he had heard, Rhaenys was doing even better than he expected, and Daenerys was also well. The court itself had been restless without word of Rhaegar himself, but things seemed to be calming down finally. At least, in public.

Behind the sheen of victory and calls for celebration, the small council had sent word of their respective concerns about Rhaegar’s decision regarding his sons and brother. Given how closely House Targaryen had come to annihilation just a few years ago, they made it clear that having the king’s male heirs sent from the king’s side less than wise. _No one on the council has the spine to call me foolish, let alone mad. But then they do not know what I do._

Lannisport had only confirmed what Rhaegar had suspected for some time. If anyone intended harm to the royal family, then keeping the royal family together could be just as dangerous as separating them. For all his objections, Jon Arryn knew that Rhaegar and his family’s safety could not be guaranteed unless all others were sent from court and the Red Keep closed to any who might wish House Targaryen ill. Impossible in practice, and foolhardy even to consider. So, Rhaegar had made up his mind.

Aegon would be named a ward of Lord Tyrell of Highgarden. The man had been a loyalist to the Iron Throne until the Sack of King’s Landing, and had provided men, ships, and even one of his bannermen to sit the small council. There was no reason to question his loyalty to Rhaegar, and the king knew that no Tyrell would never undue harm to come to Aegon, or else face the wrath of both the Iron Throne and the powerful houses in the Reach that still considered themselves better suited to the rules of that kingdom.

Of course, Aegon would be expected to travel elsewhere in the Reach besides Highgarden, visiting other castles and towns and so forth. The movement would prepare Rhaegar’s eldest son for the travel that a king had to be accustomed to, and the visits and exposure to the lords and ladies of the Reach would better train him for life at court. The fact that a moving target was harder to strike had also informed Rhaegar’s decision, and he had shared the thought with Willas Tyrell, who had quickly promised he would make it so.

Aegon had been delighted with the news. The young Tyrell had, like every other lord present, sought to impress the royal children with tales of their families and lands. He had proved more successful than most, and Rhaegar’s eldest had been delighted by the idea of training for knighthood in the cradle of chivalry. Yet for all that, Aegon had still been less than pleased that he and Jon were being sent to different parts of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as saddened that he could not spend more time with his mother and sister before departing.

That brought Rhaegar’s mind to his queen. _Elia, I wish you could understand…_

Those had been the last words he had spoken to his wife before he had departed for Lannisport. There had been a time when he and Elia had shared more than a bed, but also their children, and their hopes, both for their family and for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet nothing lasted forever.

The Sack had changed everything. Afterwards, Elia’s concern for her children had come to overwhelm all other concerns and remained her priority even now. Rhaegar did not blame her for it, even understood it, yet could not allow himself to lose sight of the future, not when so much hung on the children. _All of them._

Elia’s words rang in his mind. _But you insisted he be raised _here,_ alongside my _children_ , the ones who nearly _died_ so that he might be born._

She was not wrong, Rhaegar conceded that. But he was certain that keeping his younger son apart from his family would not help anyone heal, as Elia and others seemed to think it would. And regardless of that, he could not forget those words, burned into memory by his kinsman. _The dragon must have three heads…_

He was jolted from his thoughts by Benjen’s elbow. His eyes left the sea to find the knight pointing. He followed the finger to a large galley just ahead, the grey and white direwolf of House Stark flying from its mast. He nodded at the knight, then began walking forward.

Eddard Stark was with Ser Barristan when Rhaegar came onto the ship’s deck. The two men were arguing, their voices quiet but clearly earnest as they glared at each other. Jon stood just a few feet away, his dark eyes glancing from one to the other with worry etched in his face. It dropped away when noticed Rhaegar’s approach.

“Father!” Jon ran to him, wrapping his arms around Rhaegar’s waist. “Is Aegon with you?”

Rhaegar glanced quickly at Benjen before meeting his son’s hopeful gaze. “I’m sorry, Jon, but Aegon isn’t with me. He and Ser Arthur are on their own right now.”

Jon’s face fell at that. Then it brightened. “He’ll make it. He always does.”

“Let’s hope so.” Lord Stark walked to where Rhaegar and Jon were standing. “The tides will shift before much longer, Your Grace. Either we leave soon, or we are stuck here for at least another day.”

“Somehow I doubt one more day will kill you, Lord Eddard,” Rhaegar said with annoyance.

“Maybe, but I wish to return to Winterfell and my family as quickly as possible. The summer may be young, but the harvest is due.”

Rhaegar doubted the harvest was Stark’s greatest concern, though he conceded that his family _was_ likely driving him to return home as soon as possible.

Then the gods smiled on him. At least, that’s what it felt like as a familiar voice rang out from the waterfront.

“Jon! Father!”

His younger son rarely smiled, but he did so now, more brightly than Rhaegar had ever seen before. He turned just in time for Aegon to barrel into him, one arm hugging him while the other did the same to Jon.

“Arthur said to hurry, so I did!” Aegon was breathless from exertion, but his grin was as bright as his brother’s, perhaps more so. “He swore he’d beat me here, but I made it first!”

“By no more than a yard.” Rhaegar glanced towards the gangplank, where Arthur was walking up. His calm breath confirmed Rhaegar’s suspicion, but he said nothing of it, instead congratulating his son’s successful race against the knight.

“I told Uncle Ned you’d make it, him and Barristan too,” Jon said to his brother.

“Well, he made it,” Stark began, but the look Rhaegar gave him made him pause. The northman sighed before continuing. “We need to sail soon, Jon. Cat and the rest are waiting.”

“I know.” Jon turned to look at Aegon. “You’ll write, right Egg?”

“Write? I’ll be up there before too long!” Aegon laughed. “That, or you can come visit me in Highgarden.”

Jon laughed with his brother. Watching them do so together made Rhaegar smile. But with it came an ache, knowing that their laughter could not slow time.

Nor did it. Ser Barristan cleared his throat. “My princes, Your Grace, time is short. We need to be going.”

Egg threw his arms around Jon, clutching tightly at his brother. Jon did the same, both still smiling as they did. After a few moments, Aegon released his brother, then turned to glare at Lord Stark and Ser Barristan. “If Jon writes about how awful it is up there, send him back or make it better. Or else I’m coming for him!”

Rhaegar laughed. “You won’t be the only one, Aegon.” _I’ll bring an army if that’s required._

Rhaegar turned to look at Lord Stark also. “My son is more precious than any treasure made of metal or gems, Eddard. Do not make me regret this.”

Stark looked at him carefully, then nodded. “You have my word. On my honor, I’ll do right by Jon.”

And somehow that was enough. Rhaegar nodded at his good-brother, hoping it conveyed his warning and gratitude at the same time.

Stark’s actual brother walked up and embraced him. “Take care of yourself, Ned,” Benjen said, smiling, “and the lad too. Try not to let him burn Winterfell down.”

“I’ll try to manage,” Stark replied, smiling at his younger brother. Benjen knelt to accept a hug from Jon, clutching his nephew tightly. Then he stood and walked off the ship, crossing back to the waterfront. Arthur bowed once before following Benjen off the ship.

Aegon hugged Jon once more. “This is just farewell for now, not goodbye.”

His younger son smiled again. “Farewell, Egg.”

“And you, Jon.”

Egg smiled before following the Kingsguard. He moved quickly, but Rhaegar saw the tears glistening on his eldest’s lashes. Sighing, he took a knee and put a hand to Jon’s shoulder. _There are no tears in that gaze,_ Rhaegar thought, though there was a sadness there, that seemed all the deeper without tears to accompany it.

“Jon,” he said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, “be good to your uncle and his family. The North can be a harsh place, but you are more than strong enough to bear it. You are a son of the dragon, let no man tell you otherwise….”

Rhaegar’s voice wavered a moment, but it continued, “You are Lyanna’s son, and mine, and _nothing_ will change that.”

He hugged his son, who returned the gesture, hugging Rhaegar so tightly he thought a rib might crack. After a few moments, though not nearly enough, they released each other, and he turned and walked onto the gangplank, away from Jon, away, away…

By the time he turned around the gangplank had already been lifted. The ropes were being drawn back, the sails untied. The ship was leaving, but even now Jon stood on the deck with Eddard and Barristan, a hand raised in farewell, a smile on his face. Rhaegar mimicked the gesture, watching as the ship seemed to drift away, the figures on it growing smaller until he could see them no more.

“It’s alright, lad,” Rhaegar heard Benjen speak behind him, “the time will fly, I promise. You’ll see each other again before you know it. And until then, you and I will go on an adventure or two down near Highgarden.”

Rhaegar let out his breath, his chest aching as he did. He turned towards Aegon and the two Kingsguard walking over to be with them. He knelt to grasp his son, hugging Aegon against his chest. His son did the same, before leaning back to meet Rhaegar’s gaze, tears rolling down his cheeks. “It won’t be too long before he comes back? Before we are all together again?”

“No, Aegon,” Rhaegar replied, “after all, he is your brother, one of the dragon’s children, like you and Rhaenys.”

“And the dragon must have three heads.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure- I REALLY HATE goodbyes, and I REALLY HATE endings.
> 
> I had a lot of trouble writing this. Not imagining it, not coming up with the words or picturing the scene- typing this out was in and of itself HARD for me. Just because I knew it was a goodbye and an ending of sorts.
> 
> I had to remind myself that we have only just begun, and that time can fly like the wind.
> 
> This is the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Next we finally begin the AGOT timeline.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	17. Stirring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know. Sorry, finals kept me busy, but I made it through undaunted. Now, without further ado, let's get started.
> 
>  
> 
> In King's Landing, a young dragon tastes the air and learns of change.

** Daenerys **

“Are you going to admit defeat, or wait until I fall asleep?”

Daenerys sighed as she scanned the _cyvasse_ board. She had been confident of victory earlier, too confident as it turned out. She had let her dragon advance too far without support, and now her opponent was taking her time picking apart Daenerys’ army. _And when she’s done, she’ll lecture me on it until winter._

“Is there any point in playing on?”, she asked. “We both know that you have the upper hand, and you have more practice at this than I do.”

Nym shrugged. “In real life, just giving up won’t be an option. You could try to negotiate a way out or make your foe bleed for every victory they seek. Make victory so bitter that it’s not worth pursuing.” She flipped her raven hair over a shoulder. “Just remember, keep your dragon close.”

“Fair enough. But friends should be kept closer,” Daenerys responded, grinning.

Nymeria smiled at that. It wasn’t the smile she used in court, the one that never quite reached her eyes. This was the true thing, as rare as snow in the Dornish desert. _And I am one of the few who can bring it out these days._

The woman had found little to enjoy in the capital, Daenerys knew that. Nymeria had been raised in Dorne and Essos, traveling between Sunspear and Volantis and everywhere in-between, if her claims were true. King’s Landing was the greatest city of Westeros, but she knew that Nym found it wanting. Daenerys could not blame her; after all, Dany herself had found the last few weeks lacking in interest. She thought it might be the heat; people seemed to handle it poorly, common and noble alike. Even Lord Arryn was abed, having caught a fever the night before.

For all that, Daenerys was one of the few who seemed unaffected by the relentless sun that had plagued the city for the past month. Few besides her, Rhaegar, Rhaenys, and their Dornish kin were untouched. Most others avoided the sun, sheltering indoors or else finding shade whenever and wherever possible. It might have been funny if it weren’t making it so difficult for Dany to find people to do things with.

“I was thinking we could take a barge onto the Blackwater,” Nym was saying, “collect Ari and some others and find a breeze on the bay. If it gets too hot, then we can just jump in and cool off.”

“Someone might see us,” Dany pointed out.

“We’d go far enough that no one on shore would see anything. As for any fishermen or spies, they all know that would happen if they were spying on princesses and noblewomen while they swam unclothed.” Nym paused, then smirked at Dany. “Though I suppose, if they manage to do it without being caught, then they may have earned a look or two.”

Daenerys could feel the blood rush to her face. “If my brother knew how you kept trying to corrupt me, he’d like as not have you exiled.”

“I wouldn’t mind that much. Besides, you think he doesn’t already know?”

Daenerys doubted that Rhaegar knew anything of the sort. Her brother was often in court, dealing with highborn and lowborn alike. Their squabbles and problems seemed endless, but Rhaegar seemed to hold up well enough, especially when dealing with the common people. For some reason most of the lords tended to irritate him, a trait that Rhaenys shared with him.

But that time came at a price. The more time Rhaegar had spent working with the small council and others at court to better the realm, the less of it he had to be with his family. And while Rhaegar insisted that the realm’s business needed to be attended to, Daenerys couldn’t help but wish that her brother would find more time to spend with his family. _And my desire is nothing compared to Rhaenys’._

That brought something else to mind. Daenerys stood up. “Let’s go find my niece.” Just saying it made her want to laugh. Having a niece seven years her elder would do that.

“So we can invite her to the barge?” The young woman grinned, but it vanished with Dany’s next words.

“No. But I think Rhaegar will be more likely to see us if we come together.”

Nym frowned, then nodded. She stood, her skirt swirling as she turned and walked towards the door. Her movements were so graceful it almost made Daenerys forget the weapons her guardian carried.

In truth, Nymeria was more than a simple minder, as many thought of her. Most believed a bastard daughter of a Dornish prince was unfit company for a member of the royal family, even after years of her and her sisters coming and going at will. Few ever voiced that opinion, as that prince was widely regarded among the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms. And his daughter knew how to keep herself and those close to her safe, better than any woman Dany had met.

“Well come along then,” Nym said, “unless you want to wait on those handmaids of yours.”

“You’ll do just fine, Nym. Besides, I told them they had a few hours to go do something on their own.”

Daenerys stood and followed her companion out. As they started walking down the hall, Arys Oakheart fell in behind them, nodding at Daenerys as he did. She smiled and gave him a quick curtsy before continuing.

Nymeria turned to look over her shoulder. “By the way, Dany, Arianne said something about a letter from Winterfell. Did Jon write again?”

Daenerys nodded. “He was answering my questions about the Wall. He went there with Lord Stark a few months ago, to see the Night’s Watch. Apparently, it’s not doing very well in terms of men.” She sighed. “Jon’s doing all kinds of things in the North, Egg’s off in the Reach, even Viserys has probably found things to do at Casterly Rock. Meanwhile, we’re stuck in King’s Landing with hardly anything interesting to do.”

Her nephew’s letter wasn’t the first. Jon wrote to her once every few months, sometimes with gaps as long as half a year. His words were kind, asking after her health and that of their kin. But what they conveyed more than anything else was his experiences in the North.

Jon always spoke of the things he missed in King’s Landing in his letters, but Daenerys knew that he did not mean much of it. She knew that he missed her, along with Egg and their father, but he had never seemed at ease in King’s Landing. Young as they had been when last they were together, it had been obvious to see. From Winterfell, though, Jon had written of warmth and acceptance that Daenerys knew he had never found in the Red Keep. His praise of his cousins and their parents was effusive, almost cloying, but she doubted that he lied. No, for all his musings about his family in the south, Jon sounded far more content in the North than he had ever seemed in King’s Landing.

He was not the only one. Egg wrote almost as often, and even managed to visit the capital several times during his wardship. He too spoke with warmth of the house that had taken on his upbringing, with particular praise for Ser Willas and Garlan and the Lady Margaery. And like Jon, he had grown during the experience, not just in body but in spirit as well. Daenerys knew that Egg would make a great king someday, a belief widely shared by the court.

Viserys didn’t write at all. Most of what she knew came from Rhaegar, who received letters from Tywin Lannister and his son. He had always treated Daenerys kindly before he left, but no one else seemed to miss him, at least not in the way they missed Aegon.

“You’re wrong, Daenerys,” Nymeria said. “There is never _nothing_ happening. You just have to know how and where to look. I’m sure that if you can do that, things will start to pick up. Though I expect it’ll still be hot. In that, Jon has the better of it than all of us.”

Dany giggled. It was nice talking about her family like this, including Jon. Nymeria was the only one she could do so without minding her words, besides Rhaegar and Elia. Anyone else would either lie, praising her for speaking well of her nephew while thinking dark thoughts, or else just say the dark thoughts aloud.

“Besides, I doubt that you’ll still be stuck in King’s Landing for much longer. What’ll you wager that Your brother has already received offers for your hand?”

Daenerys’ grin vanished. “Nothing. I’m sure that Rhaegar would tell me about anything as important as that.”

“Maybe. That is if he thought it worth mentioning. There’s always some fool who should know better than to ask but still manages to find the nerve. Perhaps a Frey.”

The thought made Dany cringe. “Even then, he’d tell me. Besides, I doubt anyone thinks I’m worth so much”

Nymeria stopped and turned, astonishment on her face. “I could have sworn I was speaking to Daenerys Stormborn just now. Yet that can’t be, for she has something between her ears besides a pretty face and silver hair. She would know how stupid what you just said was.”

Ser Arys spoke up at that. “My lady, please, refrain from calling the princess st- anything like that. There’s more correct language for young ladies such as yourself.”

“My tongue knows many languages, ser. And that’s just one of its talents.” Nym winked at the knight, who Dany knew was blushing beneath his helm, just as she did the same. Ser Arys spoke and looked a proper knight, but the man could act as innocent as a maid in some regards.

Dany decided to aid him. “You know not to tease a Kingsguard, Nym. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

She didn’t appreciate the indulgent expression the young woman gave her, but Nym didn’t say anything more as they resumed their approach to the throne room.

Nymeria was right, though. Daenerys knew how foolish her words were. Everyone at court paid her compliments; on her dresses, her harp playing, and especially her looks. But even if they were lying about all that, she was still the king’s sister, and a princess of House Targaryen. Ever since her flowering some months ago, she had been told to start thinking on such things by the women in her family. Even Elia had said so.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. All she wished was to find Rhaenys and go see her brother. Thoughts of marriage and courtship could wait.

The throne room was not empty when they arrived. Several clusters of courtiers and noblemen were scattered throughout the chamber, their words and laughter drifting through the air. The light from the windows cast long shadows throughout the hall, which Dany noticed most of the men were standing in. She did not know if it was secrecy they craved, or merely respite from the heat.

As she and Nym began striding down the chamber’s side, one of the courtiers noticed them. He straightened and then bent at the waist, bowing as she passed. “Princess.”

She smiled and nodded at him as she passed. The sounds from the other groups died away as the others realized Daenerys’ presence and followed the first man’s lead. In truth Dany thought their bows unnecessary, but Rhaenys insisted that she allow it. “Respect for the crown means respect for its family, regardless of their sex or title. Otherwise, they might forget that they are beholden to it,” the older girl had said.

_Perhaps she’s right. I just hope they do not resent us for the same reason._

“Princess.” Daenerys was surprised to hear a voice rise from one of the clusters to address her and stopped. The speaker broke from his fellows and walked over with another man just behind. His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled at her. He halted his approach a few feet away before bowing, coal-black hair obscuring his face for a moment.

“My lord Baratheon.” Daenerys smiled as he straightened. “It’s good to see you about. I was worried the heat would have you taking shelter as well.”

“My secret is perspective, princess. As hot as it is here, I know that it is even more so back in Storm’s End or Highgarden. And that still leaves Dorne!” Renly shook his head, grimacing at the thought.

“We don’t mind the sun, my lord,” Nym pointed out, “so constant a visitor it is in Dorne. Otherwise, nothing would ever get done.”

“I don’t doubt it, my lady. The sigil of your father’s house is a sun, after all.”

_Her father’s house._ Daenerys saw the insult there but did not think it was intended. Nym didn’t act like it, simply nodding at the lord’s words. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. We mutter it as we trudge along, remembering that it applies to the sun as much as any would-be conqueror. Though even in this heat, some might be tempted to bend just a little.”

Renly laughed. He was a handsome man, and the laughter made him more so. The Lord of Storm’s End had arrived just a fortnight ago, and was already a favorite among the court’s ladies, Daenerys among them. Still, there were those who questioned his presence, wondering whether the younger brother of two rebel lords should be welcomed to the capital.

“Your father is wrongly named, my lady,” Renly was saying, “for no viper could raise as lovely and courteous a woman as you.”

“Oh, you are wrong, Lord Renly. My father is well named, and proud of it. As are all of his daughters, including me. I appreciate your kind words, but anyone with the knowledge will tell you that vipers _are_ lovely, and perfectly courteous so long as they are given courtesy in kind. If not, there are few things as deadly.” Nymeria had an amused expression as she smiled at the young lord. He chuckled and bowed his head, though Dany suspected he did not think he agreed with them.

“Her father’s name _is_ well earned, Renly. Snakes do well in the heat, or so I am told.”

There was no humor in the voice that said those words. Dany glanced sharply at the speaker, the man who stood just behind Renly. Light brown locks framed a handsome face, but the contempt suffusing his features took much from his charm.

Renly’s smile faltered. “Loras, don’t. Forgive him, princess, the heat has put him in a foul mood, along with many others.”

“Hardly an excuse.” Nymeria smile had become a smirk, her eyes narrowing as she looked the young Tyrell up and down. “Especially from one who claims to come from the birthplace of chivalry. Where is that fine Highgarden charm that you’re famous for, Ser Loras? Did you leave it in your bedchamber?”

The young knight flushed. “You have no right to lecture anyone on propriety, _my lady_. Tell me, why is that someone of your circumstances attends the king’s sister? Did one of the proper ladies at court decide to offer you a favor?”

“The king’s sister is standing right here, and would appreciate it if you remembered that, _ser._ ” Anger gave her words a bite that few knew she could have. Dany’s voice was sharp, so much so that all three of their gazes turned toward her.

She did not look at Renly or Nymeria, instead staring into Loras’ eyes. “Lady Nymeria has been at court for two years now and visited frequently for many years before. She is the queen’s niece, and one of my closest friends. You ask why she is attending me, Ser Loras. If I may ask, why do you think that my household is any business of yours?”

Loras’ face grew redder as she spoke. He did not speak, though, instead frowning before bowing his head to stare at the ground.

Nym chose then to intervene. “Daenerys, please let it be. No one has died from being spoken down to.”

“Not that such speech was appropriate.” Renly frowned at Loras. “That was poorly done, ser. I suggest you offer pardon, or else the princess may think you more ill-mannered then you truly are.”

_A little late for that,_ Daenerys thought, but the knight sighed and bowed at the waist.

“I offer apologies, princess. My words were ill-timed and ill-mannered, there is no denying it. I have no excuse but ask for your pardon all the same.”

Dany might have let it end there, but the omission in his apology spurred her on. “I can forgive your bad manners, ser, but your words to my friend are another matter entirely. It is _her_ pardon that you should seek, if you want mine.”

Loras looked up at her, with what she thought was resentment in his eyes, then turned reluctantly and bowed towards Nymeria. “I apologize, my lady. I was disrespectful of you and your father, Prince Oberyn. I ask your pardon.”

“You have it.” Nymeria nodded her head as the knight straightened. “Martell’s and Tyrell’s have been fighting one another for thousands of years. I wouldn’t be worthy of the name if I couldn’t survive a few words. None of us would.”

“Well said, my lady,” Renly broke in. He smiled again, though there was an anxiousness in his eyes as he spoke. “Princess, the reason I’ve held you up was to ask you something. I have it on good authority that the king is summoning Prince Aegon from Highgarden soon. Meaning no disrespect, but do you happen to know if there is any truth to that?”

_If only I did._ Still simmering over Loras’ words, Dany turned towards Renly. “I am afraid I must disappoint you, Lord Baratheon. My ladies and I have heard similar rumors, but I have not been able to ask my brother whether there is any truth to them or not. In fact, I was just on my way to find my niece, so that we could seek him out and ask.”

“Princess Rhaenys?” Loras asked. “I spoke with her less than an hour ago. She was already on her way to seek out King Rhaegar. It’s no surprise you had the same idea. The smallfolk say that intelligent minds think alike.”

_We are family, after all._ “You’re too gracious, Ser Loras. Well, if that’s the case then I shall see if she managed to find His Grace. If you’ll excuse me, my lord, ser.” Daenerys gave a curtsy as they bowed again. She turned and started walking towards the Iron Throne but stopped as she remembered something Jon had told her in his letter.

“Oh, Lord Renly?” He turned as Daenerys addressed him. “Prince Jon wrote to me from Winterfell. He had just returned from Castle Black with Lord Stark after meeting with your brother. The Lord-Commander is in good health and inquires after your own.”

“Stannis?” Renly laughed. “I think it unlikely that he did so, Princess. More likely your nephew was being polite.”

“You think so little of Jon?” Dany asked, her irritation flaring.

“Not at all. I appreciate his courtesy. No, it is my brother who I think little of. The man’s brave, and he knows how to fight, but he’s more stubborn than a castle wall and just as thick. I expect he thinks I should have joined the Night’s Watch with him, though I doubt they would have taken a six-year old lordling from a rebel house.”

Daenerys’ irritation ebbed with his words, sadness rising to replace it. Renly looked amused as he spoke, clearly wishing to convey humor with his words. But it couldn’t hide the spark that came into his eyes as he spoke. _Is that sadness? Or is he bitter?_

Renly was the last member of House Baratheon left, besides Stannis. After Robert’s death on the Trident, the stormlords and their men had fallen in line for the most part, encouraged by Rhaegar’s offer of clemency to all who bent the knee and aided in ending his father’s rule. Stannis, young as he had been, refused the new king’s offer, and elected to take the black rather than serve the man who had slain his elder brother. He had taken many of the Baratheon men with him, leaving Renly a young boy at the king’s mercy.

Hard feelings would be natural in circumstances like that. Still, Daenerys thought it sad that brothers could harbor such ill will towards one another. _How many tales that began with rivalry ended in tragedy?_

“I think your brother truly did so, my lord,” she found herself saying. “After all, you’re the only kin he has left. No one is so hard that they can ignore that.”

Renly’s humor and smile left with her words, his expression almost sympathetic as he looked at her. Dany didn’t give him time to respond, though, instead turning and walking past the Iron Throne, towards the inner chambers where the king and queen lived and slept.

As soon as they were clear of the chamber, Nym picked up her pace and came to Dany’s side. “Tyrell and Baratheon are filled with confidence and bravado, without a brain to share between them. You shouldn’t pay them any mind.”

“One’s the Lord of Storm’s End, the other a son of Lord Tyrell. I’d be a fool to ignore them,” Dany replied. “I don’t care how good a jouster Loras is, the only ones who get to talk to you like that are me, Rhae, and your family. Everyone else better keep their thoughts to themselves.”

Nymeria started to speak again but Daenerys held up her hand. “Enough, Nym. I don’t plan on discussing it anymore. Let’s just find Rhae and Rhaegar.”

Her friend subsided, but Daenerys knew that this wouldn’t end the matter. Nymeria had a long memory and wouldn’t forget that this conversation had ended unfinished.

After a few minutes, they reached the king’s chambers. To Dany’s surprise, the other three Kingsguard in King’s Landing were all standing without. Ser Arthur, Ser Balon, and Prince Lewyn all were straight as rods, their eyes focused anywhere but the door that they stood in front of.

The door from which raised voices could be heard.

Daenerys couldn’t make out the words, but she recognized all of them. Forgetting about Nym and Ser Arys, she walked up to the Lord-Commander. “Ser Arthur, is my brother seeing visitors?”

The knight looked at her, then glanced behind her at Arys and Nymeria. “He is not. However, he did not forbid _family_ from disturbing him.”

Daenerys caught his meaning and turned to her companions. “Ser Arys, please see Lady Nymeria back to my chambers. Then return here.”

“Princess, I am tasked with-”

“My safety, yes, we all know that. Do you not see your three Sworn Brother’s standing here? I think you’ll agree that they can take up the task until you return.”

Arys opened his mouth, then closed it as he looked at Ser Arthur. When the older man nodded, Arys gave a short bow and then turned, beginning the journey back. Nymeria glanced at the door, then gave Dany an encouraging smile before following the young Kingsguard out of the hallway.

Dany turned towards the door. She took a breath, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was not happy with what she found. All three of them were standing, and all three of them were trying to speak over the others. Rhaegar was dressed in royal raiment, his crown still on his head. It looked as if he had come here directly from the Iron Throne. His face was red as he spoke, his voice booming as if he were commanding knights or lords in the field.

His opponent was just as loud, though her voice was more high-pitched. Rhaenys was dressed in a lovely gown, the red-and-black of House Targaryen complementing her tan features and black hair very nicely. That tan was almost as red as her father, though, as she shouted at him, standing near enough that their chests were nearly touching.

Elia seemed the calmest, but even she had raised her voice. She stood just to the side of her husband and daughter, both hands raised with one hovering over the shoulder of either. She did not look angry, as they did, more concerned and anxious, and that made Daenerys all but certain that she was trying to calm the storm before her. But Elia was failing. The three were so focused on each other that they had not even noticed Dany coming in.

_At this rate, a servant will hear them and spread gossip all over King’s Landing, if they haven’t already._ Daenerys looked around, her gaze finally settling on a goblet that stood on the small table next to the door. She picked it up, then let it drop to the floor.

The loud clang it made when it struck had the intended effect. As one, her family stopped shouting and turned to find the source of the noise. All they found was Daenerys, her expression angry as their eyes focused on her.

“Would anyone like to tell me why I had to do that in order for you to realize someone had come in?”

“Daenerys.” Elia walked over as Dany picked up the goblet and out it back on the table. “We did not expect you.”

“I saw that. Nym and I went looking for Rhaenys, who we learned had come here, so here I am. Now, what in the seven hells is going on?”

“Don’t use that language,” her good-sister chided, but Daenerys didn’t feel scolded. Elia’s expression was more amused than anything.

Meanwhile, her brother and niece had apparently regained their composure. Rhaegar was breathing deeply as he turned and walked towards the bed, where a flagon was sitting on the window sill. He uncorked it and drank deeply, clear liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth as he did. _Water. Well, at least he isn’t angry_   and _drunk._

Rhaenys’ breath was steady, but she clearly wasn’t done with her anger. “Perfect timing, Dany. I was just telling my father what an utter fool he was acting like. Perhaps you could help me?”

“Enough, Rhaenys.” Rhaegar corked the flagon and set it down, wiping his mouth as he did. “We disagreed over something, that is all, Daenerys.

“A disagreement?” Rhaenys eyebrows nearly reached her hairline as she looked at Rhaegar incredulously. “That would be like calling the Tourney of Harrenhal a ‘small misunderstanding’! Do you really mean not to tell her the truth?”

“I _do_ intend to tell her, Rhaenys. Right now.” Her brother turned to look her in the eye. “Daenerys, Lord Arryn passed in his sleep just an hour ago. The bells should start ringing before long.”

_The Hand is dead?_ Dany’s first reaction was sadness. Lord Arryn was a kind man, respected and admired throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He had always treated her well and offered his aid whenever she had asked it of him. A good man and a loyal Hand, he would be missed.

Her second reaction was to consider the implications. Lord Arryn had been Hand since Rhaegar’s reign had begun. Now that he was gone, every lord in the Seven Kingdoms would be lusting after the position. While most had no chance of even being considered, the few who would be were all formidable, and to choose one would risk insulting all the others.

Daenerys decided to begin with the sadness. “I am sorry to hear that. Lord Jon was a good man, kind and warm. I did not think his fever as bad as that.”

“No one did.” Rhaegar sighed. “But the gods will do as they will. Lord Arryn has passed, and my plans thrown into chaos by it. But time will not stand still, as much as I might wish it, so the crown must adapt.”

Rhaenys laughed, her eyes narrow as she did. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Better then saying that you’re throwing my brother into the viper’s nest and telling him to try climbing out.”

“Rhaenys, enough,” Elia said, “your father has prepared for this for some time, and Lord Arryn’s death does not change it. You are always among the first singing Aegon’s praises, what has changed?”

“Aegon?” Daenerys spoke before her niece could respond to the queen. Dany was not sure how her nephew came into this for a moment. Then she remembered the whispers Renly had spoken of. “He’s coming back? You’re ending his wardship?”

Rhaegar nodded. “His sixteenth name day is almost here. I had intended to do so anyway; Lord Arryn’s death only means that I must do so sooner. Nor will he come alone. I expect the Lady Margaery and a number of others will join him.”

“Join _them,_ you mean,” Rhaenys interjected. “It is not just Egg, Dany, he is calling _all of them_ back. All at once.”

Daenerys’ did not understand for a moment. And then it clicked. “Jon? Jon and Viserys? They are coming back as well?” Her heart leapt at the thought. _The family is coming together. Finally._

“Yes, the ravens will be sent before long, Daenerys.” Rhaegar seemed pleased by the smile on her face. “Though I expect it’ll be some time before they are all hear.”

At that Rhaenys laughed again. “So, you _aren’t_ going to tell her. Just as well, I suppose. Wouldn’t want her to think less of you.”

Elia’s disapproval was etched into her expression. “Rhaenys, enough. I have half a mind to send you to bed early.”

“Like an errant child? I might feel more respected if you did, Mother.” Rhaenys turned and walked towards Daenerys. She stopped next to her before turning and giving Rhaegar a curtsy. “By your leave, Father.”

And with that, she turned, opened the door, and walked out, walking down the hall as if she’d bowl over any who stood in her way. Ser Arthur followed her, expressionless as he did.

“Seven save us.” Rhaegar rubbed his eyes with his hand. “She spends too much time with your brother’s children, Elia. She certainly learned that stubbornness from Oberyn.”

“As if _you_ know nothing of stubbornness.”

Rhaegar surprised Dany by chuckling. “True enough.” He lowered his hand and looked at Daenerys once more. “I will tell you the rest in time, Daenerys. For now, it is enough to know that my sons and brother will be returning soon. And the realm will see how House Targaryen stands together.”

Daenerys was still wondering about the things Rhaegar wasn’t telling her. But she pushed them aside as she smiled at her brother. “It’s been far too long. I would be happy to have them all here.”

“You’ll have your wish, little dragon,” Elia said, smiling as she did. Though for a moment her expression held a trace of sorrow that confused Daenerys even more.

“The sons of the dragon will be united, with one another and the Seven Kingdoms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters will bring us to Winterfell. Jon, Sansa, and at least one other POV (as yet undecided), though not necessarily in that order.
> 
> Hope y 'all enjoy. See you next time.


	18. Chilling Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The warmth of summer begins to chill in the North.

** Barristan **

The old holdfast wasn’t much to look at. In truth, it was more a tower than a holdfast, a single large turret stretching maybe thirty feet high. Some stairs led to the entrance at its base, while a small wall shot off of its side, transitioning into a well-kept stable.

As their party came up to it, Barristan scanned the surrounding land. It was flat for the most part, though he could make out hills arching upwards to the east and north, and he knew the wolfswood was just a league to the southwest at its nearest. The tower was nothing special, but from its top he expected one could see for miles. _Any man can see that it’s served that purpose for a very long time._

The stables had four horses tethered within as they came up. That meant that the men who had sent word were still close. Sure enough, when Barristan glanced up a man was standing on the towers top, waving down at them. “Lord Eddard, good to see you. The others are inside with the deserter.”

Stark reined his horse in and dismounted, his large cloak blowing slightly in the breeze as he did. He waved back at the man above him. “What state is he in?”

“He’s seen better days, milord. His clothes are fancy, least they look like they used to be. Don’t think he’s had anything in his belly for days, maybe longer. Hasn’t said anything proper, just keeps muttering some gibberish.”

“I’ll see him myself in a moment.” Lord Eddard turned back towards the group. “Jon, Robb, with me. Rodrik, you and the others should see to the horses.” The knight nodded, motioning to the guards as he dismounted. Eddard’s younger son started to protest, but the northman cut him off with a look. “That means you too, Bran.”

Brandon Stark looked more a Tully to the eye. His auburn hair hung about his face in locks, while deep blue eyes gazed out from a face with a light sprinkling of freckles. The seven-year old looked and acted older than his age, which was part of the reason his father had chosen to bring him from Winterfell alongside the prince and his older brother.

The lad flushed but climbed from his saddle and began leading his pony toward the stable. The ten guards that made up the rest of the group did the same, glancing around as they did. _Is it the land that makes them uneasy? Or the task that they’ve come to see finished?_

Lord Stark turned and began walking towards the tower. “Robb, Jon, now.”

Stark’s heir vaulted from his saddle, a dull thud coming from his boots as he hit the ground. Robb Stark looked much like his brother, with the same auburn hair and blue eyes, though they were lighter than Bran’s. Already taller than his father, the youth wore leather and fur, which fit well over the strong arms and legs Barristan knew he possessed. His normally cheerful demeanor was now somber, his expression stern as he walked after his father.

“Ser?” Barristan turned to see his charge looking at him curiously. He grunted as he came off his mount, the bay snorting as his body and armor’s weight came off its back.

The prince slid off his mount and landed as lightly as a cat while Barristan dismounted. The knight envied him that. Jon’s build was slim and quick, with more the wiry muscle of stamina than the raw strength that his cousin Robb possessed. He was also shorter than his cousin, standing at the height of Lord Eddard. Jon’s features were more of House Stark than either of his cousins, with dark hair framing a pale face and darker eyes observing the world around him.

Barristan nodded after Lord Eddard. “After you, Jon.” The youth nodded and walked after his uncle and cousin while the knight followed a few steps behind.

Like Robb, Jon had a serious expression on his face. The difference was that it did not look so odd to Barristan. The prince was a model of courtesy, but like his uncle was not one for letting his emotions show easily. His cool demeanor was well-known, though by now most at Winterfell knew the prince could be warm and friendly to those who became close to him. Few had ever gotten that far.

They walked through the door and were greeted by the smell of old hay and piss. The former was strewn all over the ground, regardless of the worn-down furniture strewn around the floor. Two northmen were seated with an old table between the two, a pair of dice laying between them. The two Starks were standing to the side, where Eddard was speaking with an older man with grizzled features with a direwolf badge on his surcoat.

Barristan did not focus on them, though. He scanned the room, looking to see if their reason for being here was present. And sure enough, behind the two seated men there was a huddled shape, the shadows helping to obscure it. It did not look much like a man for a moment, but then it shifted as a wane face came out from under the tattered black cloak, a grey eye glancing about to find the new source of noise in the tower. The other eye was milky white and streaked with red, unseeing. Nor was that all he had lost. The man had given an ear to frostbite, and the ear that remained was frostbitten as well. Still, he was young, despite the lines etched into his face, and the dead expression on it changed to recognition as it found the new arrivals.

_That eye, the cloak too. This is no stranger, I know this man._

The prince noticed it as well. “I know you.” Jon walked across the room, paying the seated men no mind as they stood at his approach. He stopped just short of them, his gaze meeting the deserter’s. His expression became graver as he looked him up and down. “It’s been some time, Ser Waymar.”

 _Ser Waymar. Lord Royce’s youngest._ Barristan was shocked at this revelation. The last he had seen the young knight has been at Castle Black, where the man had still acted more a lordling than a brother of the Night’s Watch. While courteous to Lord Stark and his retinue, along with Prince Jon and Barristan himself, Royce had behaved as if he were Lord-Commander rather than a new ranger. The black brother’s the Kingsguard had spoken to had not expected him to last long.

 _Still, I never took him for a deserter,_ Barristan thought. _What led to this?_

“Prince Jon.” The whisper was barely that, so quiet the man’s voice was. Royce’s eyes looked Jon up and down, his expression becoming amused as it did. “What are you doing? This is no place for princes…”

The man broke off, giggling. Jon looked confused now, turning to look at Barristan, who shook his head in response. He had no idea why Royce was acting like this.

“Don’t trouble yourself, milord,” the grizzled soldier said. He looked past Lord Stark and Robb to seek out the prince. “Whatever happened, he’s not entirely there anymore, in his head I mean. Don’t think there’s much we can get from him.”

The man sighed and looked back at Eddard. “What’s come out is bits and pieces, Lord Stark. Best I can tell, he was on a ranging with some others when they were attacked. I think he’s all that’s left, gods be good. One of Mance Rayder’s bands, most like.”

“Did he say so?” Stark asked.

“No, milord.” The soldier hesitated a moment. “It’s just, they were supposed to be tracking wildlings, and now they’re dead and this one fled. What else could it be?”

Stark’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he turned and walked to stand beside Jon. He addressed the deserter. “Royce. Was this wildling’s work? Or some beast’s? Speak.”

The iron tone in the lord’s voice would’ve made any sane man obey without question. But Royce just giggled some more. “The wildlings were dead. Dead, he said. But then I went to look, and the dead men had moved camp.”

The deserter stopped giggling and started laughing outright. Barristan felt a chill go down his back at the sound, so devoid of humor it was. All the others looked as unnerved as he felt. Even Lord Stark grimaced at the sound Royce was making.

And then it stopped. The deserter’s mirth fled all at once, his good eye going wide as his cracked lips parted. “Then _they_ came. No spiders, no dead things, just _them_. They broke my sword, the one Father had made for me…”

“I’ve heard enough.” Stark turned towards the older soldier. “Is there a block or a log ready?” Receiving a nod in reply, he turned to face the deserter. “Take him outside.”

The two young soldiers hastened to obey, bending at the knee to grasp Royce by his arms. He did not resist, his face dead once more as they half-carried, half-dragged him out of the tower and into the daylight.

Robb spoke up once he was gone. “Seven hells. I think the men who died might have been the lucky ones.”

“I doubt they would agree.” Lord Eddard ran a hand over his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

They walked outside where, over to the side, an old log had been dragged. Royce was standing before, still held by the two Stark men. Eddard’s younger son was staring at him, eyes wide as he beheld what was left of the Valeman. The guards that had accompanied them were standing straight, watching as Barristan and the others came into view.

Jon moved to stand beside Bran, his hand reaching out to squeeze his young cousin’s shoulder. The boy looked back and nodded before looking back at Royce. Barristan stopped just a few feet from them, eyes following Bran’s gaze. Lord Stark had come to stand by him, while Ser Rodrik walked up to him, carrying a sheathed greatsword.

“Do you have any final words?” Lord Stark asked. “For your father? Or anyone else?”

Royce didn’t seem to understand. But then his eye widened again, lighting up as they rose to meet Eddard’s. “I saw them, my lord. The Others, they are coming, gods curse me if I lie. Tell them, please, _tell them_ …”

Stark’s face grew harder at Royce’s words, if that was possible. He reached towards Rodrik and pulled Ice free. The Valyrian steel flashed in the daylight, the blade shimmering as it moved through the air. As it came out, the men forced Royce to his knees and bent him over, his neck head and neck just past where the log ended.

“Do not look away,” Barristan heard Jon whisper to his cousin. “Your father will know if you do.” The lad nodded as Eddard began to speak.

“In the name of Rhaegar, of House Targaryen,” Stark intoned, “the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

The northman raised the greatsword, pausing for just a moment as the blade came over his head, and then brought it down.

Royce’s head came away with the stroke. A spray of blood followed it, quickly becoming a trickle as the flow lost its strength. The cut had been so clean that Ice had hardly any blood on its blade. Barristan saw Bran bite his lip, but the lad did not look away. Jon squeezed his shoulder again, whispering approval as Stark wiped his blade clean and slid it back into its scabbard. _The lad is young, but braver than most his age._

“He died well, at least,” Robb allowed, “no tears or begging.”

“He was already gone, lad,” Barristan pointed out, “even if his heart still beat. Ser Waymar was dead the moment his mind broke.”

“He said…” Bran’s voice faltered, but he started again. “He said that he saw the Others. That they killed his men.”

“Pay those words no heed, Bran,” Eddard said, “the Others have been gone for thousands of years.”

“So, he was lying? Trying to make excuses so he might live?”

“I doubt it, Bran,” Jon said quietly. “You didn’t see him up close, like I did. He was mad, like Ser Barristan said.”

“And if he wasn’t, there’s no excuse for cowardice,” Ser Rodrik growled. “Whatever happened to him, he should have returned to Castle Black or else the nearest fort the Watch maintains. Instead, he fled south. Cowardice, no matter the cause of it.”

“His loss will still be felt,” Barristan said. He was reluctant to speak, but the circumstances drove him to. “Lord Royce will be wrathful to learn of his son’s end. His name and position lent prestige and honor to the Night’s Watch, when many in the Seven Kingdoms hardly ever think of them anymore.”

There was more truth in that than Barristan wished, though less of it than there used to. The Night’s Watch had been in dire circumstances for years, as he had learned firsthand when Prince Jon had traveled with Lord Stark to Castle Black a few months ago. Most of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms dismissed the Night’s Watch as a haven for criminals and rebels and resisted sending them aid. The lands of the Gift, administered by the Watch, had been largely abandoned and overgrown, decimated by wildling raids and harsh winters. Of the nineteen forts that were built along the Wall’s southern side, only Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower were occupied.

However, the Watch’s circumstances had improved during King Rhaegar’s reign. Many stormmen and crownlanders had chosen exile over following the new king, and more of the former had come after the Small Storm, the foiled uprising that had occurred just before the Greyjoy rebellion. All told, some three thousand men were counted within the Night’s Watch, though little more than half of them were trained for battle.

“I will write to Lord Royce myself,” Eddard was saying, “explaining what happened. The man deserves that much, at least.” Stark turned and looked at the body, which was being taken away by the two soldiers who had held Royce. “Make sure that the grave is marked. If Lord Royce decides to come, it is best we know where to return to.” The men nodded before resuming their task.

Stark walked to where Jon and Bran stood. “You did well, Bran,” the lord said with an approving nod. “Do you know why I had to do that?”

“Jon said that he was a deserter. From the Night’s Watch.”

“Yes. But do you remember why _I_ had to do it?”

The lad glanced at Jon before answering, “Our way is the old way.”

“Yes. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If he cannot bring himself to do it, then the condemned may not deserve their sentence.”

Bran started to speak but caught himself, and then turned towards Barristan. “That is not how it’s done in the south, is it, ser?”

 _Why did the lad have to take this road?_ “No, lad, it is not,” Barristan spoke reluctantly, not out of shame so much as the cold look that Bran’s father was giving him. “The Andals have had different traditions than the First Men since they came to Westeros. They each have their own values and flaws, but they work, after a fashion.”

“Well said, Barristan,” Jon interjected, smiling down at his cousin. “There are few lords south of the Neck who would do as Uncle Ned did, Bran. That makes him more noble for doing it.” The lad smiled at that, beaming up at his older cousin.

 _He has the lot wrapped around his fingers._ Barristan almost laughed at the picture the thought painted. House Stark was undoubtedly fond of its kinsman, no man could deny that. But Lord Stark’s children were especially taken by the prince, treating him more like a sibling than a ward or a cousin. Jon returned the affection in kind, to both them and the lord and lady who had welcomed him into their home.

In truth, Barristan suspected Rhaegar was not sure if that affection was an entirely good thing. The king had wanted to mend ties with House Stark while providing his son with a safe home, and both seemed to have been done. Nevertheless, for some reason in his letters Rhaegar seemed to focus on Jon’s relations with his kin, as if gauging how far those bonds ran.

 _The king likely dwells on Jon’s loyalties, to both his father and to his mother’s kin._ Barristan knew the king’s concerns were groundless- Jon spoke with nothing but courtesy of Rhaegar, and his affection for both his older brother and aunt was undimmed even after seven years away from them both. No, for all the prince’s warmth towards House Stark, House Targaryen remained his true family, and the lad knew it.  _At least, I think as much._

“You know I don’t approve of flattery, Jon,” Eddard said reprovingly, though Barristan saw the approving spark in his eye. “There’s little honor in striking the head from a man whose mind has broken.”

Jon’s smile faded at that, his expression becoming serious once more. He looked up at the sky. “It’s near midday, uncle. Aunt Catelyn wanted us back before sundown.”

“Well then, best not linger.” Lord Stark turned to the men around him. “Our work is done, let’s be on our way. You three, fall in with us. You’ll spend the night at Winterfell, get a decent meal and beds before heading out in the morning.” The soldiers thanked the northman as he started walking towards his horse. Barristan and Jon did the same, while Robb and Bran came just behind them.

“I still think the man died bravely,” Stark’s heir said as he swung into his saddle.

“Dying while mad isn’t brave, it’s just unfortunate,” Jon countered. “Courage and fear are not considered.”

“Is that so?” Robb asked, eyebrow twitching up. “Do you think that _you_ are mad, Jon?”

The prince’s eyebrows rose. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“That’s a shame, cause if you were, you wouldn’t be afraid of me beating you back to Winterfell.” Before Jon could respond, Robb kicked his boots into his mount’s sides. It whinnied and took off, leaving nothing but the youth’s laughter and dust in its place. A moment later Jon’s horse did the same, the prince cursing his cousin with a grin as he raced to catch him.

Barristan did the same, though his legs protested as his horse began to gallop. He was far too seasoned to let it bother him, though. No Kingsguard worth the name let a thing like aches impede his duties. Still, neither of the youths wore armor, while Barristan did. That meant all he could do was frown as he watched the two pull away from him.

The knight sighed, then started to chuckle. He and Jon both knew that they were supposed to stay close to each other, but Barristan could not deny him such things as this. Youth _was_ the time for such things, the singers had that much right. If it was wasted on idle pursuits, then the time would slide away until manhood was upon them.

That was when the real work would begin _._ Jon was still a boy by the law, just passed his fourteenth nameday, but a prince was bound to take on responsibilities sooner than most. Barristan knew that they could not remain at Winterfell forever, that eventually word would come from the king, calling them back to the south. _The prince knows that too, or at least senses it. How much of his affection is driven by that, by the fear of leaving his mother's kin behind?_

Barristan shook himself, bringing his mind back to the present. It was only then he realized that his mount had slowed to a trot. The knight urged back into a canter, eyes scanning the land and trees around him as he looked for his charge.

After five minutes, Barristan found him, along with his cousin. They had reached the bridge, though their race had been forgotten. Both had left their horses and were standing by something at the path’s side, talking with one another. He could not make it out at first, but as he came closer, he realized that it was a stag. It was a large beast, with an antler that held seven prongs. Just the one, though, for the other had broken off, and was nowhere to be seen. The beast innards were also out of place, having been ripped out and partially devoured.

Barristan reined in his horse and dismounted, white cloak flaring slightly as he did. The Kingsguard walked to the youths’ side, kneeling to examine the dead stag more closely. “Perhaps a bear did this. Or maybe a mountain lion?”

“There’s no lions of any kind in the wolfswood, ser,” Robb said, “and the bears fear Winterfell. They never come this close.”

“Perhaps one was starving, or sick,” Jon guessed. “Even if it knew better, that might have driven it to come closer.”

As they continued debating the manner of beast that did this, Barristan noted that the stag’s blood went away from the path, leading down, towards the stream. “Stay here.”

Before they could reply, he stood up and started following the blood, walking off the path. His hand went to his blade as he did, eyes scanning the trees as well as the ground. If whatever had done this was ill or starving, like Jon had thought, then it might attack. That was even more likely if the stag had managed to wound it.

As it turned out, the stag had wounded its killer, fatally so. Not a minute away from the trail, Barristan saw a large furry shape lying in the trees, immobile, tawny bone protruding from its throat. At first he thought Jon right, that it was a bear, but then realized it was something else entirely. _Seven hells, that’s a wolf. The largest I’ve ever seen._

Large was putting it lightly. The beast was at least as big as Bran Stark’s pony, possibly larger. It’s size and the blood on its teeth might have made another man retreat. The knight recognized the antler, though, and the lack of breath coming from the animal.

“Seven hells.”

Barristan cricked his neck, so fast did his head turn. Both Robb and Jon had ignored him and were standing just a few feet away. Both were staring at the beast, eyes wide as they took it in.

“That’s a direwolf,” Robb said, coming closer. “Is it dead?”

“Yes, the stag took it with him,” Barristan observed.

“Her,” Jon said.

Barristan looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“That’s a female.”

“Is that so? What makes you think that?”

“I don’t see any male parts,” the prince pointed out. “Also, male wolves don’t suckle pups, and I doubt direwolves are different.”

 _Pups?_ Barristan turned to look at the corpse again. Only now he noticed that the direwolf _was_ moving. No, that was wrong, it was being _moved_.

Jon stepped past him and walked to the female’s side. Barristan’s hand left the sword at his side as he did. He remained uneasy but knew that there was nothing to fear from a dead wolf, however large.

His eyes widened as the prince knelt and then stood, carrying a moving lump of fur that whined as he did. The pup was very young, its eyes open but still cloudy as it attempted to nuzzle at Jon’s leather jerkin. The prince did not appear uneasy, instead smiling as he watched the pup’s actions. He lifted it briefly, then glanced at his cousin. “This one’s a girl.”

“I’ve got a boy here” Robb replied, standing with another pup in his arms. “And there’s three more still down there.”

Jon looked at them, then turned towards Barristan, holding out the pup in his hand. The knight sighed but did as bid, taking the pup while the prince knelt again.

For all its mother’s size, the pup was not freakishly large itself. As big as an elkhound’s perhaps, but no more than that. It made Barristan wonder how these creatures grew so large, and how swiftly they did so.

“I’ve got another two boys here.” Jon rose with two more pups in hand.

“Last one’s a female.” His cousin rose with his first pup in one hand and a second in the other. He turned his head toward the road as a shout came from it.

“That’ll be Lord Stark.” Barristan turned toward the road and shouted, “We’re down here! Over here, by the stream!”

A few moments later, there was the sound of footsteps. Ser Rodrik led the way, with Eddard and Bran just behind. The guards came as well, though most of them stopped at the sight of the dead creature before them.

“It’s a direwolf, uncle,” Jon pointed out. He turned as Bran came up to him and handed him one of the pups. The lad gasped as the pup buried its nose in his shirt, looking for milk. After a moment, though, Bran smiled, and began petting it with his other hand.

“There hasn’t been a direwolf south of the Wall in two hundred years” Rodrik declared.

“Now there are five.” Robb looked at his father as he spoke. “Three males, two females.”

“Like us!” Bran was giggling as the pup in his arms started nuzzling his neck.

_The lad’s right. A direwolf for every Stark child, with a matching sex on top of that._

He expected Eddard was thinking along the same lines. Barristan caught the look that Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik shared with each other. The former walked forward, looking at the pups before turning to look at their mother. The lord knelt and pulled the antler free, its blood-soaked prongs sticking for a moment before coming loose. Stark did not look at ease, his face grim as he looked again at Rodrik.

“Uncle Ned.” Jon caught Stark’s gaze. “What should be done with the pups?”

“Can we keep them?” Bran’s face was bright and hopeful as he looked at his father. It quickly turned to disappointment as his father shook his head.

“Father, their mother’s dead,” Robb pointed out. “They won’t survive on their own.”

“No. Better a quick death.” Stark nodded at Rodrik, who nodded as he stepped forward, a hand going to the dagger at the man’s side. Bran pulled away, eyes pleading as he looked at his father.

 _Seven save me._ “Rodrik, hold a moment.”

The northman stopped and looked at Barristan. He sighed and turned to Lord Stark. “I think that would be a mistake, my lord.”

“You would have us keep them alive, Ser Barristan?” Stark’s eyes narrowed as he met Barristan’s gaze. “What do you know of raising direwolves, ser?”

“Nothing,” Barristan answered at once. “But the lads have the right of it. Five pups, two girls and three boys, one for _each_ child of House Stark, whose sigil is a direwolf. I keep to the Seven, but even I am not such a fool as to miss the omen here. Killing the pups is inviting misfortune, my heart and head both say so.”

Stark’s expression was hard, but he did not argue with Barristan. His gaze shifted as his heir spoke again.

“It can be done, Father.” Robb’s voice was confident, his expression more so. “Warm blankets soaked in milk will do until they’re older, I’m sure of it. I’ll do it myself. We can train them, make them less wild, I know we can.”

“Please, Father?” Bran broke in, lip quivering.

The northman glanced between his sons. Then he sighed before turning back towards the road. “You raise them yourselves. And if they die, you’ll bury them yourselves.”

Bran gasped as he hugged the pup tighter. Robb handed one of his to Rodrik, who started following his lord. Stark’s younger son refused to let his go as he walked beside his brother, who was also holding a pup close.

That left Jon and Barristan. The youth held out the remaining pup. “I’ll trade with you, Barristan.”

He looked at Jon curiously. “Like this one more?”

“No, but this one’s a boy, that one a girl. I think Sansa would like it more if I gave her the puppy.”

 _Oh, she would._ Barristan resisted the urge to roll his eyes and exchanged pups with the prince.

The pup felt awkward in Barristan’s grasp. Still, he could not deny that the pup had a certain charm about it. Jon couldn’t hide the wistful expression on his face as he looked at them.

“Don’t get any ideas, Jon.” Barristan turned and started walking. “Can you imagine the conversation you’d have to have with His Grace, asking to keep a _direwolf_ as a pet? Neither of us would hear the end of it. Besides, my argument only won out because there were five pups of the right sex. Even if I thought the king would agree, there’s no spare pup to be had.”

There was no reply. Barristan stopped and turned to look back. The prince had vanished. “Jon? Where are you?”

“Here, ser.” After a moment Jon came striding back into view, a triumphant grin on his face. After a moment Barristan saw why. His free hand now held a ball of white fur, which blinked red eyes at the Kingsguard as the prince came up to him.

Barristan started to speak but stopped at the glare Jon gave him. "Convincing Father to keep him will be _my_ responsibility, not yours, Barristan. Now, are we going to have an argument we both know I'll win, or shall we start moving?"

The knight sighed.  _Is that stubbornness from Lord Eddard or Rhaegar?_

"Very well, Jon," Barristan said. "But I'll give you fair warning, if that direwolf decides to eat you, it's _my_ head the king will have. So, if he so much as growls at either of us, then we'll be leaving him in Winterfell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. That ending, right? Still, given where the chapter started it felt right to lighten the mood just a bit. And to be honest, I just couldn't resist the joke in that last sentence.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	19. Stiches and Steel, Milk and Wax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Winterfell, young wolves prowl and play, while others sense the changing seasons.

** Sansa **

Her stitches were crooked again.

Sansa sighed as she glanced at her younger sister’s needlework. Arya’s movements were too rigid and quick, her arm jerking on the thread with a determined look stuck to her face. It looked as if she was trying to _will_ the stitches to right themselves, to become more like Sansa’s. As usual, they refused to obey.

Septa Mordane hadn’t noticed yet. The old governess had just reentered the chamber and was scanning Beth Cassel’s work. Her face was stern, but Sansa thought she saw a twinkle in her eye as the septa advised the girl. “The scarlet and green go well together, but the stitches aren’t as straight as yesterdays. Consistency, young lady. Master that and your work will be worthy of the king’s court.”

The young girl nodded. She was pretty enough, with a somewhat plain face that was blessed with curly auburn hair, though it was closer to brown than red, unlike Sansa. Beth was not very bright if Sansa was being honest, but she was as sweet as a person could be. Everyone at Winterfell acted protective of her, high and low alike. Her status as the masters-of-arms daughter also encouraged the members of the household to treat her well.

“It’s not so good as all that. Septa Mordane shouldn’t get her hopes up.”

 _This again?_ Sansa sighed as she looked at the source of those whispered words. The speaker had dark hair and brown eyes, her skinny form disguised in part by the cloak that was draped over her shoulders. Her expression was calm, though her eyes were narrowed as they looked at the septa.

“Leave it be, Jeyne,” Sansa whispered back. “She’s right about consistency, and Beth’s work is fine. There is nothing wrong with encouraging her.”

“Encouraging her is one thing, lying another entirely.” Jeyne shook her head. “What are the odds of anyone in King’s Landing ever even _seeing_ Beth’s stitching? It is not as if _she_ will ever go to the capital.”

Sansa found those words irritating. Before she could respond, though, there was a cough from the other side of the room. She glanced over to see Mordane looking at them, her gaze sharp. Sansa flushed as she looked back down and continued her work. Jeyne did the same.

Septa Mordane stood and walked away from Beth, likely planning to continue her inspection. Sansa thought that she would come to examine her work next, but instead walked to the fifth girl in the room. The septa knelt as her hands found the girls before her. “Well done, Rose. So straight, and just look at that purple.”

Rose smiled at the praise. Her proper name was Rosey, but ever since she and her brother had come to Winterfell, most had taken to using its shorter form. The girl said she didn’t mind, and certainly didn’t act like it bothered her. Even Jeyne conceded that Rose was pretty, though she did so reluctantly. The girl’s brown hair was lustrous, her hazel eyes sparkling whenever she laughed or smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks when she did. Smiles and laughter were never far from Rose. All told, she was one of the most cheerful people Sansa had ever met.

That was remarkable, considering what had brought her to Winterfell. Rose and her younger brother had been on the ocean road, traveling with their mother form Lannisport to Oldtown, when the reavers had come across them. Rose never spoke of details, her sunny demeanor becoming guarded and cool whenever Sansa or anyone else asked as much. All that she would say was that they had been taken to Harlaw and treated poorly until the royal forces invaded. Their mother had died, and they likely would have too if not for Jon.

 _Jon._ Sansa’s face grew warm as her thoughts came to him. Before she could dwell on them, though, her sister spoke up.

“How in seven hells are _mine_ not straight?” Arya wasn’t shouting, but she wasn’t quiet either, glaring down at the crooked stitches beneath her fingers. Her expression gave Sansa the impression that her thoughts were much less polite than her words.

Not that Mordane cared for her words anyway. “Young lady, you should watch your tone, and don’t say such things. Where do you think you are, a great castle or some barracks?”

“I’d rather be in the latter. At least there’d be something actually happening.”

The septa looked scandalized. “Arya Stark! If you’re lord father and lady mother knew how you spoke-”

Arya rolled her eyes. “They already know, septa. You make sure of it.”

“Arya, please,” Rose broke in, a reassuring smile on her face, “the septa is doing her duty, that’s all. Lord and Lady Stark would expect no less.”

Arya looked like she wanted to snap, but she restrained herself. That was another reason Sansa liked Rose- not even Arya in a bad mood scared her, and Arya liked her too much to vent. Still, the look she gave Mordane said that she was far from done. But rather than lash out, as Sansa feared, her younger sister surprised her. She stood up and placed the embroidery on her seat, then gave the septa a curtsy.

“If you don’t mind,” Arya said in a polite tone, “may I go use the privy? I’m afraid this arguing has disagreed with me.”

 _Disagreed with...?_ Sansa had to throw a hand over her mouth to top herself from laughing. Rose managed to keep quiet as well, though her smile said her thoughts were the same. Jeyne looked angry but subsided when she saw Sansa’s expression. Beth did not seem to hear the words, so focused was she on her needle.

But the septa, gods pity her, took Arya’s words at face value. “Oh, very well then. But don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.” Arya’s slightly nauseated expression vanished the moment the septa turned back towards Rose. She walked to the chamber door, turning to shoot Sansa a smug look just before she left.

_She better not get into any trouble while she’s gone. I swear, she’s wilder than that pup of hers._

A thought struck Sansa like an arrow. She shot to her feet, her needle and embroidery in hand, and held them out to Mordane. “Septa, I’m afraid I need to go too. Lady’s going to need food soon, and I’d rather take care of her sooner than later.”

The septa took her material and examined the stitching. Apparently satisfied, the old woman nodded. Sansa curtsied before walking out of the chamber. Rose and Jeyne each shot her encouraging looks before the door closed.

Once it was, Sansa, picked up her skirt and began walking as swiftly as she could, quickly coming to a light run. She did not head toward her chambers, though. Septa Mordane had forgotten that Lady would not be there at this time in the morning. No, she would be with her siblings in the kennels. _And any fool could tell that Arya’s thinking the same._

Sure enough, Sansa came upon her sister just inside the Great Hall. Her sister was walking, though her pace was also quick. Arya didn’t notice her until Sansa reached her back and tugged on her braid.

“Ow!” Arya stopped and spun to look at her. “What was that for?”

“You tell me”, Sansa shot back. “I suppose you must have forgotten the privy is the other way from the chamber we were in. And just ten yards away.”

Arya gasped. “What? You know that? I didn’t realize you could count!”

“Cur.” Sansa doubted her sister noticed the insult as much as the shove she received. Arya stumbled a bit before catching herself, grinning at her older sibling. Sansa sighed as she motioned towards the door. “I told Septa Mordane I was going to feed Lady. I expect she and the others are out with the boys right now.”

Arya blinked. “That’s…that’s actually a good excuse. I’ll remember to use it next time.”

“I expect she’ll get suspicious if we _both_ start feeding Lady.”

“I’d say I’m feeding Nymeria, of course.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You remembered her name! Honestly, Arya, even now you amaze me!” She laughed at the glare her sister gave her. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

Arya tried to hide it, but after a moment her own laughter broke to the surface. Sansa joined her, the hall echoing with their voices.

It had always been like this between them, or so Sansa preferred to recall. While she had always enjoyed the gentler parts of being a lady, the songs and dances and courtesies, Arya had always excelled in the livelier parts of their station. Hunting, hawking, riding; Arya enjoyed such things just as much, parts of them even better. And while they both knew the business of numbers and larders and running a household, Sansa had had to work hard in order to learn of such. Arya seemed to understand it naturally, though she dismissed such work as tedious and beneath her attention.

While Mother seemed concerned by her behavior, Sansa knew that Arya’s attitude was a source of pride for their father. There had been a time when it had bothered her, the knowledge that her younger sister’s different attitude endeared her to others as much as Sansa’s. It had seemed reason for concern, as if Arya’s success was to her detriment. Mother and others had assured her that was not the case, though, and over time she had outgrown such trivial thoughts. Sansa had just turned three-and-ten, and competing with her sister like that was beneath her, as she constantly reminded herself.

Soon, their laughter died away. Still smiling, Sansa motioned towards the entryway and began walking. Arya walked beside her, her pace quick to meet her older sister’s.

They were greeted by all manners of sound as they entered the courtyard. It was busy, with men and women moving steadily and confidently as they went about their duties. But Sansa did not pay them much attention, instead turning her head as her ears searched for a sound she knew well. And sure enough, after a moment the sound of clashing steel and curses cut through the rest of noise, drawing her gaze to the courtyard’s side, where a small group of men had gathered. Arya noticed as well and walked towards the group, leaving Sansa to follow close behind.

As she came to its perimeter Sansa managed to see the source of the noise and the men’s attention. Two youths were sparring, blunted steel in their hands as they circled one another. Robb suddenly lunged forward with a low cut, but Jon refused to engage, sliding back as the tourney blade sliced the air in front of him. As it withdrew her cousin retaliated, stepping forward to aim a blow at Robb’s arm. Her brother caught it, though barely, and grit his teeth at the force of the strike. Jon didn’t continue the attack, instead drawing away, his hands shifting positions on his sword’s handle.

“Why doesn’t Jon press on?” Sansa whispered to Arya. She did her best, but her younger sister still knew more about swordsmanship and fighting than Sansa.

“Robb’s stronger,” Arya murmured, “so Jon will waste his energy if he tries to best him that way. He is faster, though. I think he’s trying to bait Robb, make him expose himself.”

One of the men watching turned at the sound of their voices. Ser Barristan looked surprised to find the daughters of House Stark standing there, but when Sansa held a finger to her lips the knight nodded and turned back towards the sparring before him.

The other observers were few. Ser Rodrik was watching with a fierce expression, whiskers quivering as he studied the combatants. Also close by were some guardsman, as well as Bran, whose impatience was plastered onto his face. Sansa expected her younger brother wanted to join as well, though he knew that no one would let him on account of his age.

Standing next to Sansa’s brother was Rose’s. Tom shared much with her in looks, though his eyes were brown instead of hazel, and his hair was cut short. While he was of an age with Jon and Robb, one would’ve been forgiven for thinking he was younger. He was only a little taller than Bran, and thin, with none of the muscle that the dueling youths possessed. Tom was not nearly so sunny as Rose was, and his expression was dark and intense as he observed the fight before him.

A shout brought Sansa’s attention back to her brother. Robb stumbled back from Jon, the latter’s blade leaving his shoulder as he did. This time Jon did press forward, thrusting towards Robb’s chest. His blow never connected, as Robb shifted to the side and brought his elbow down on Jon’s wrists. The prince cursed as his grip was lost, and his blade with it. He looked up just in time for Robb to put his sword to his neck. After a moment he shoved it away, a rueful grin on his face. Robb returned it, stepping back as Jon retrieved his steel.

“What are you smiling about, boy?!” Rodrik barked at Robb. “Had this been a real fight, you wouldn’t have pulled that off, as Jon relieved you of that elbow and the rest of your arm not a moment ago.”

Robb’s satisfied expression faded a bit at the old knight’s words. _Does he always have to be like that?_ Sansa prepared to intervene on her brother’s behalf.

But Arya beat her to it. “But this isn’t a real fight,” her sister said. “So, does that really matter?”

Rodrik turned to look at Arya. “My lady. I didn’t realize you had joined us.”

“Septa Mordane gave us leave,” Sansa chimed in, not wanting Arya to be Rodrik’s only focus. “It’s about time that Lady was fed, and she gave us leave to do so.”

Rodrik glanced at her before returning his gaze to Arya. “My lady, the training ground is where one prepares for the battlefield. A good warrior must treat one as seriously as the other in order to be ready. Otherwise, it defeats the purpose.”

Arya cocked her head to the side. “Then shouldn’t they be practicing with actual swords?”

Ser Barristan spoke at that. “Not yet, my lady. They are both still a little young to train with live steel.” Both Robb and Jon glared at the Kingsguard as he spoke, but he paid them no mind. “Besides, if Robb spilt the prince’s blood by accident, I would be bound by duty to take the offending hand.”

Sansa sighed. _Barristan should know by now that scaring Arya takes more than that._

Sure enough, Arya smirked. “If that was true, then Robb and I wouldn’t have any hands left. Or Ser Rodrik or Tom or you, for that matter.”

Barristan smiled at that. “True enough. His Grace has allowed for exceptions both during training and if Jon misbehaves. But even so, striking a prince is never wise.”

“Said prince is standing right here, Barristan,” Jon said, drawing their gazes to him. “And if any Stark loses a hand, the offender will answer to me.”

Sansa thought those words harsh, though the grin on Jon’s face seemed to take any sting out of them. Barristan nodded his head, still smiling as well.

Jon turned back towards Robb. “Speaking of Lady, it’s about time for Ghost’s next meal as well. I’ll let you catch your breath while I see to him, Wolf.”

Robb gave their cousin a sarcastic bow. “How gracious, my lord.” Jon laughed at that, joined by Sansa and her siblings a moment later.

Jon walked through the small cluster and slid his sword back into its scabbard. He turned to look at Sansa and Arya. “Seems we’re headed for the same place. Would you mind if I walked with you?”

He was still grinning, dark eyes meeting Sansa’s as he spoke. Sansa fought to keep her face from reddening. “We don’t mind, of course. Do we, Arya?”

Arya shook her head. “Come on, let’s go.”

The three of them walked across the courtyard, heading towards the stables and kennels on the other side. Before they reached it, though, a shrill noise cut through all the rest.

“ _Arya Stark!”_

They all stopped in their tracks. Sansa turned to see Septa Mordane striding from the Great Hall, her face red with outrage. Arya had stopped as well, her normally bold demeanor faltering at the look on the septa’s face. From behind them, the sounds of conversation died away as the others attention came to Mordane as well.

“And just _where,_ pray tell, do you think that you are going?” Mordane stopped just in front of them, glaring down at the young girl. “Did you forget that the privy is not ten strides away from the sowing circle’s chamber? Or did you not plan on returning at all?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. The septa reached out and grabbed Arya’s upper arm, tugging her to her side. “Well, young lady, I hope you’re break was worth it. Now, let’s be on our way, the others are all anxious to see your needlework.”

“Septa,” Jon began, but he cut himself off at the look that Mordane gave him.

“Prince Jon, I will assume that Lady Arya lied about her reasons for being here and that you took her at her word. But rest assured, defending her for doing so will do no one any good, least of all you or her. Am I understood?”

Sansa knew Jon. There were few things in Winterfell that could intimidate him. Father or Mother’s disapproval. A sharp blade too close to his kin. Septa Mordane in a fury. He gave Arya a sympathetic look but bowed his head to the old woman. “Of course, Septa.” Behind them, Sansa heard Robb start to cough violently, trying and failing to mask his amusement at his cousin’s discomfort.

Mordane nodded, then set her gaze on Sansa. “Have you fed your wolf yet?”

“Direwolf, and no, Jon and I were just heading to the kennels,” Sansa replied.

“Well then, you’d best be off, shouldn’t you?” Mordane didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning and practically dragging Arya behind her as she walked back into the Great Hall. Arya’s expression was vengeful, though Sansa couldn’t tell who its target was.

“Bloody hell,” Jon muttered. “I wonder if all septon’s and septa’s are like that.”

“I think Septa Mordane is special,” Sansa observed.

“I guess she’d have to be. The Faith isn’t strong north of the Neck, so the ones who are up here must be hardier stock then the ones in the south.”

Sansa grinned as they resumed their walk to the kennels. It made her happy, seeing him in a good mood, especially knowing how quickly it could change, returning him to a darker place.

It had been worse when he had first arrived in Winterfell. Father and Rodrik had seemed much the same, but Jon hadn’t been the bright and cheerful prince the stories had made her expect. Instead Winterfell had found itself as host to a dark and brooding new inhabitant, whose courtesies were so cold one felt that they would catch frostbite. While he had always seemed warmer towards Sansa and her brother and parents, the only one’s Jon had truly seemed warmed around were Ser Barristan and the two children he had brought from Harlaw.

One night, she and Robb had gone to their parents’ chambers and asked for advice. They had been told that Jon was not just a prince, but family, and that he should be treated as such. But he hadn’t welcomed their invitations to play and converse so much as tolerated them, and they were both losing heart. Mother had offered kind words and encouragement, but it was Father word’s that stuck with them more.

“Do not judge him too harshly,” her father had said. “Jon is your age but has already seen and done far more than any child ought to. He is cold because he is hurting, simple as that. Attempting to batter through his armor will likely make it worse, though you may wish to try. If Jon is to find a home here, then he’ll need to learn to trust you, which will take time and patience on your part. Do you have it in you?”

Sansa and Robb had taken those word’s to heart, and over time their persistence had borne fruit. Jon’s shell had grown less dark, and he left it more now than he ever had before. Still, his shadows were never far, near constant in their threat.

Fortunately, they were nowhere in sight as they entered the kennels. Sansa and Jon’s goal was just inside, in the first stall on the left. There, six direwolf pups were milling about, though they quickly came clamoring as the two entered the kennel itself. Sansa laughed at their pups’ antics, glanced among them until she found the golden eyes and calm demeanor that gave Lady her name.

Both had been what distinguished the pup since Jon and the others had returned from dealing with the deserter. She and Arya had been sharing a meal with Rickon when Bran had run in, shouting for them to follow him. They had done so, only to stop when they saw what he and the party had with them. While Arya and Rickon had both run forward to examine these wonders, she had just stood there until Jon had walked up and placed Lady in her hands, bowing his head slightly as he had. His own pup had been tucked into his jerkin and peered out at her with milky red eyes.

The thought of Ghost made Sansa look for him. The albino was easy to spot- sitting on his haunches next to the stall door, eyes no longer cloudy as Jon came up and sat beside the pup. “He always knows when I’m coming.”

“Of course he does, we always feed them at the same time of day,” Sansa pointed out.

“It’s more than that,” Jon insisted. “Whenever I come here, no matter the time, he’s always sitting like that, waiting for me. Ghost’s smarter than he lets on, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe,” Sansa allowed. “They are direwolves, after all. Their bound to be smarter than normal wolves or dogs.

Jon’s expression became grim. “I still can’t believe that stag managed to take their mother with it.”

 _He’s still puzzling over that?_ “It makes no difference now. Whatever the case, she’s gone and they’re our responsibility now. Speaking of which, where did they put the ra-OW!”

Sansa was cut off by a sharp pain on her left hand. She wrenched it to her chest and glared down at Lady, who looked back with an eager look in her eye and a wagging tail. “Do you think I’m going to blame Nymeria or Shaggydog? I’m smarter than that, Lady.”

“Did she break the skin?” Jon stood and walked to her side. His expression was concerned as he reached out to take her hand. Before Sansa could react, he had it and was looking it over.

 _His hands are firm, but not as rough as Father’s._ Sansa blinked the thought away, but she felt the blush returning, this time refusing to stay out of sight. Jon didn’t seem to notice as he grunted.

“Well, there’s no blood, that’s good. Lucky for you,” Jon added, frowning down at Lady, who yawned at him.

“She’s just hungry,” Sansa managed, pulling her hand out of Jon’s. “Now, where are the rags?” She turned away, to look for the cloths they had been using to feed the pups and to hide the color in her face.

“They won’t need them much longer,” Jon said from behind her. “Uncle and I think they’ll be eating meat in the next couple weeks.”

“And they’ve only been here for one already!” Sansa shook her head. Ser Barristan had voiced the thoughts of many when he’d asked Luwin how quickly direwolves grew. The maester knew little of the subject but had enough knowledge to say that they’d grow quickly on milk, and once they were old enough for meat, even more quickly than that. Most had been skeptical, but the pups were already growing quickly, and that doubt had died away.

“It’s hard enough to think of space for them here,” Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have no idea where I’ll find any room for him in the south. And that’s assuming Father will let him come with me.”

The heat in Sansa’s cheeks left with those words. If there was anything that she disliked hearing him speak of, it was Jon’s departure. Common sense told her that it would happen eventually, but Sansa despised talking about it. She thought it served to make the day come sooner, and couldn’t abide the thought.

Still, she knew better than to just change the subject. She decided on a different course. “They found room for Prince Viserys’ lion. Surely a direwolf wouldn’t be so much harder than that.”

She had intended it as a joke, but Sansa quickly realized she had chosen the wrong subject. Jon’s face hardened at the mention of his uncle, and she saw one fist clench for a moment before he released it. “Daenerys said the poor thing was kept in a cage the whole time. All it did was eat and sleep, unless someone prodded it enough to make it roar. I’d rather leave Ghost here than do that to him.”

“Oh, we both know you’d never do that,” Sansa said quickly, grasping for a way out of the pitfall she’d come to. “Viserys probably kept it caged for fear it’d eat him, come to think of it. From what I’ve heard, he’s no good with animals.”

That was a stretch and they both knew it. What little Sansa knew of Prince Viserys was all secondhand, either from gossip among the household or from Jon himself. And seeing as he hadn’t seen the man in seven years, Jon’s knowledge was limited, aided only by the letters that came to him from his kin in King’s Landing and Highgarden.

Still, it seemed to do the trick. Jon looked at Sansa for a moment before nodding slowly. “No, he was never good with animals. It makes me wonder how he fares in the lion’s den.”

“Casterly Rock.” Sansa sighed at the thought. Jon had only seen it from afar, but it had left an impression clear as day. He conceded that it was an incredible sight, though he swore that he preferred Winterfell by every measure. Sansa always marveled at the tales of the Rock and wondered if Jon’s uncle had found them as lovely as the singers said.

She was preparing to ask Jon about the Red Keep when he started chuckling. Sansa turned to look at him, meeting his gaze as she did. There must have been concern there, but Jon just smiled wider and shook his head. “We forgot the milk. I just realized that.”

 _The milk?_ Sansa was confused for a moment, then remembered where they were and what they were supposed to be doing. Then she started giggling, joining Jon as the dark mood lightened, by milk of all things.

After a few moments, they both stopped, smiles still on their faces. As they did, Sansa couldn’t resist looking Jon over, taking in his dark locks and eyes and youthful features. He was already turning as she did, so Sansa didn’t know if he noticed her do so. She sighed as she felt her blush returning and followed him out of the kennel, the pup’s whines of protest and hunger following them outside.

“The kitchens should have some milk somewhere,” Jon mused aloud. “It should only take a minute or so to heat.”

“Robb already fed Grey Wind,” Sansa recalled. “Maybe he still has the jug he used.”

“No, he drank it before we began exercises this morning.” Jon glanced around the courtyard, then started walking towards the Great Hall, while Sansa followed close behind.

They were just a few feet away when the doors opened outward. Maester Luwin and Mother walked through, speaking quietly as they did. Luwin saw them and stopped. “Sansa, Jon.”

“Maester Luwin,” Sansa gave a quick nod of the head, Jon mimicking her greeting and action. A curtsy was the proper greeting, but Luwin was too familiar for that, and just a maester besides.

“He’ll be in the godswood, Luwin,” Mother said, bringing the maester’s attention back to her. “I’ll see to him. I think Ned will take it better there.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” the old man bowed. “And the other letters?”

Mother turned and looked at Jon, concern on her face. “Go ahead and tell him. Though you should find Ser Barristan first.”

“Barristan?” Jon turned to the courtyard’s side, where Barristan was helping Rodrik manage a match between Robb and Tom. Jon called out the Kingsguard’s name, who looked at them, said a quick word to Rodrik, and began walking over.

Sansa listened and watched this with confusion. And with growing apprehension.

Her mother didn’t notice her mood’s shift. “Sansa, what are you doing down here?”

“I was about to feed Lady, but I need milk,” Sansa replied.

“I had the servants keep a jug stored in the cupboard next to the kennel entrance. Why don’t I show you?” Before Sansa could refuse, Mother gave her a look that left no room for argument. Sansa sighed as they walked away from Luwin and Jon.

As they did, though, Sansa stole a glance back at them, watching for a moment as the maester began addressing Jon and Ser Barristan, who had just arrived at his side. The older men’s faces were both serious, while Jon’s expression was a mirror of the confusion and apprehension that Sansa felt. And just before her mother tugged her gaze back forward, she watched Luwin hold up two small rolls of parchment marked with blood-red wax.

Wax that Sansa knew bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since my last post. I promise, the gap between this and the next won't be that long.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	20. Considerations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lord ponders the past and the future.

** Eddard **

“Thirty barrels of mead arrived yesterday, my lord,” Luwin said tiredly. “From White Harbor, a courtesy of Lord Manderly. The man who brought them said the lord is on his way as well, though I expect it will take him some time.”

Eddard sighed as she looked at the old maester. The man was far from young and spry, but the last two weeks had seemed to age him another decade. Luwin insisted that he was fine, but he had stopped refusing offers of help from Cat or the children, which spoke to his weariness. _I hope he recovers some of his strength before our guests arrive. Winterfell is already unprepared, facing a royal party without a maester would be nigh on impossible._

It seemed impossible even now. The winter town was largely empty during the summer, but many had been summoned to aid in preparing Winterfell for playing host to the king and his escort. While there was still room to be had, Ned worried over whether the town and castle could handle as many people as they expected.

“Lord Manderly may decide not to accompany him,” Ned found himself saying. “If the king has granted him an audience already, then he may simply send one of his sons in his place.” He glanced down at the papers Luwin was holding, noting the numbers as he read them. “If Lord Wyman isn’t accompanying His Grace, that will save us a notable amount of food and drink and give us more space to work with.”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester replied, nodding to himself. “Now, if the king has kept his schedule, he’ll have left White Harbor yesterday. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, it should take him another week or so to arrive. That’s assuming he is moving briskly, though, and we do not know if that is the case.”

“Let’s hope the man gives us more time than we hope for,” Eddard said crossly. “It’s bad enough he sent word of his approach after they were already underway. If the gods are good, his company will slow him down a few extra days.”

While the king was coming to Winterfell, he was not bringing the court with him. Ned hadn’t been surprised to learn the queen had remained in King’s Landing; her frailty was well known, and he doubted she would handle the journey to White Harbor, much less Winterfell itself. Both the king’s sister and daughter were traveling with him, though, along with three of Ser Barristan’s fellow Kingsguard and a host of servants and guards. Aside from that, however, there were few people of note accompanying the royal excursion to Winterfell.

Eddard had been surprised to learn of the lack of counselors coming with Rhaegar. The entirety of the small council was remaining behind, with Jon Connington presiding and acting as Hand until Rhaegar returned. However, the king had not named an official successor to Jon Arryn.

Ned’s face twisted as the grief flared at the thought. The ache that name brought with it still came to him. By all accounts Lord Arryn had passed quickly, which was a mercy few men received or deserved. Still, the sudden death of the man who had been like a second father to him had struck him hard. Cat and the children had helped Ned to weather the worst of the pain, but it still stung whenever his mind came to the late Hand.

“My lord?” Eddard was pulled back by the query. He looked up to see Luwin studying him, concern plain on his face.

“Forgive me, Luwin, my mind wandered.” Eddard cleared his throat before scanning the documents again. “Did Poole confirm the numbers here?”

“Yes, and Lady Stark checked herself to be sure. I believe that we’ll be able to accommodate the royal party and our own household for as long as ten days, and that’s not including any supplies the king is bringing with him or those coming in while he is here.”

“Good.” Eddard looked up and started walking across his study. “Luwin, I’m going to go find Catelyn. Finish the details with Poole, and if there’s any pressing concerns, come find us.”

Ned barely heard the man’s affirmation as he went through the door. He had turned from matters of food and accounts to those of House Stark, and he did not wish to prepare without her input.

Before he knew it, Eddard was out of the Great Keep and walking towards the stables. He knew that Cat had ridden into the winter town to examine how the buildings and people were faring and intended to seek her out. Before he got there, though, Ned noticed a strange presence sitting near him. He paused, then changed course to investigate.

The pup was just sitting there when he got to its side. At first Eddard thought it was Robb’s, but he realized its coat was too light. _Too light? I suppose they are growing on me after all._

Ned was still unsure of the pup’s presence in Winterfell, and what it signified. If he was being truthful with himself, he had expected them to die in his children’s care, lacking a mother at such a young age. But the direwolves hadn’t died; indeed, the pups had thrived, growing quickly as the weeks went by. They no longer needed milk, instead competing with the castle dogs and hounds for scraps of meat and other food. They lost more often than not, but Eddard expected that would change eventually, and the children all made sure to feed them in the meantime.

That brought a thought to his head. Ned glanced back down at the pup, who had only looked at him once before returning his gaze to the structure above him. Eddard followed his gaze, eyes scanning the gargoyles that lined the First Keep’s walls. At first he saw nothing, but then he caught a flash of auburn in one of the windows.

Eddard sighed before calling up. “You didn’t get up there by taking the stairs, did you, Bran?”

There was no response. Then the auburn returned, along with the red face of his second son. “No.”

“You will take them to get back down.” He was still smiling, but Ned’s voice was firm as he spoke to the boy. Bran face disappeared after a moment. Eddard glanced down at the direwolf pup. “I had hoped you might discourage that sort of thing.”

The pup looked up at him and blinked. The northman shook his head. The pup’s arrival had been strange, but they acted almost like pets, and he had to remember that they were still wild, however small they were. _And I keep expecting them to act tame, on account of their size. They’ll never be tamed, even if the children befriend them. Wild things can make friends, but surrendering freedom is not in their nature._

As the thought crossed his mind the door to the First Keep opened. He expected Bran to come running out but was surprised to find a white-furred twin to his companion running towards him instead. After a moment, his gaze shot back to the door where, sure enough, his nephew was emerging alongside his son.

Jon’s expression was sheepish as he and Bran came up to Eddard. The latter looked guilty as sin, though Ned could detect the smile still tugging at the goy’s face. He glanced at his son before turning to Jon. “I hope you have a good reason for being here, watching your cousin do exactly what his mother told him not to.”

“That’s not what she said!” Bran spoke quickly, before Jon had a chance. “She said no more climbing, and I didn’t climb up there, Father, I swear!”

“Oh? And how did you get up there, if you didn’t climb or take the stairs?” _Is he going to try and convince me that he flew?_

“I _scaled_ the wall, Father.” Bran’s expression was serious, his tone even more so. “That’s not the same as climbing it.”

_Gods save me._ “Scaling and climbing _are_ the same thing, Bran.”

“No, Luwin said it wasn’t,” his son declared proudly. “Climbing is something a child might do, or someone trying to go somewhere. Scaling is what you do when you’re on a quest or fighting a war and people are trying to drop things on you.”

“Is that what you were doing, then?” Eddard looked at Jon, who had the sense to keep his eyes on the ground as his uncle’s gaze found him. “Dropping things on Bran while he _scaled_ that old wall?”

“He wanted me to, Uncle.” The prince’s voice was quiet, his dark eyes coming up to meet Ned’s as he spoke. “But I didn’t, I swear. I just said I would since he wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

_So Robb hasn’t beaten the brains out of him completely. That’s a good sign._ Eddard looked at Bran before scanning the First Keep’s wall once more. After a few moments, he decided on his course.

“Well Bran, I suppose you might be right about climbing and…scaling. That said, I doubt your mother forbid you from the first just to watch you do the second. So, there’ll be no more of it. Am I understood?”

Bran glanced at his feet for a moment, then brought his eyes up again. “Yes, Father. I promise.”

Ned knew what the downward glance meant but did not press the point. “Good. Now, I was going into the town, but I do have something to speak with Jon about. Go find Luwin and let him see if your courtesies are good enough for a king.”

“They are!” His son’s expression became indignant. “I’ll show Luwin, and the court too!” Bran didn’t wait after that, running at full speed back towards the Great Keep, his pup running after him as he did.

“Gods save me.” Eddard shook his head as he turned to look at Jon. “Has he settled on a name yet?”

“No. Still can’t decide, and he thinks that all of _our_ ideas are no good.”

“Hmm.” Ned frowned at the prince. “I will try to forget that you were helping him ignore Cat’s wishes. Don’t let me catch you doing so again.”

Jon bit his lip, but then he surprised the northman. “I’m afraid I can’t agree, Uncle. Bran will keep climbing no matter what, he likes it too much. If I or someone else doesn’t watch him, he’s more like than not to get hurt.”

“That’s a given, whether he’s alone or not.”

“Maybe,” his nephew persisted, “But if someone is with him, then it’s less likely. And if something bad happens and he needs help, then I can get it.”

Eddard opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to admonish Jon for encouraging his cousin but knew Bran too well to put the blame on him. And though it irritated Ned, his nephew was right- Bran treated climbing almost as seriously as his sword lessons with Ser Barristan and was not likely to let it go. A pair of watchful eyes couldn’t hurt. _Still, those eyes shouldn’t be Jon’s._

He wrestled with the thought for a few moments, aware of his nephew’s gaze as he did. Eventually, Ned nodded. “True enough. Still, I want you to find a way to let someone know as soon as you see Bran off the ground.” He glanced down at the albino direwolf. “Maybe you could teach him to find a friendly face.”

Jon chuckled at that. “I’m not sure if he can be taught, Uncle.”

“Course he can. Arya’s already taught hers to fetch gloves, fetching a person comes right after that.”

His nephew laughed at that, while Ned just smiled. His good mood left him, though, as he recalled what he wanted to speak to the youth about. “Jon, I need to speak with you about the king’s visit.”

The humor left Jon’s face quickly. He glanced down, making eye contact with the albino pup at his feet, and then looked up to meet Eddard’s face again. “Father’s taking me back with him.”

“That’s more likely than not.” Ned started walking, motioning to Jon as he did. His nephew mimicked him, the albino pup trailing them as they headed away from the First Keep. As they did, Eddard contemplated how to proceed.

_I doubt he’d appreciate the soft approach._ “We’ve known that this was coming for some time, Jon. You’re nearly a man, and the king must be anxious to have you return.” He paused, then forged ahead. “But what I don’t understand is why he decided to bring so many with him or even…”

He trailed off, but Jon knew where his thoughts were going. “Why he is coming himself.” The youth nodded, eyes staring into space as he walked beside Ned. “Barristan was wondering the same thing. He always thought we’d just be summoned back, or that the king would send an escort. He doesn’t understand why Father is coming either, and neither do I.” Jon paused as he glanced at Eddard. “Perhaps he wants to pay his respects. To Mother, I mean. And it has been a long time since a king came north of the Neck. Maybe he thought it was time.”

Eddard appreciated his nephew’s honesty, and the astute way he seemed to be handling this. Both Luwin and Catelyn had suggested those possibilities to him already, but none of them knew Rhaegar well enough to say what reasons had made him come to Winterfell. _Seven years is long enough for any man to change. A king is no different._

“Uncle.” Jon was looking at him again. “If Barristan and I have to return…” His nephew paused, then took a breath and started again. “If Barristan and I have to return to King’s Landing when my father does, will any of the others be allowed to come with us?”

That was a good question, and Jon wasn’t the only one asking it. Eddard had always intended for most of his children to spend some time in the south, to gain experience in southron ways and court life. Still, he and Cat had always expected that they would spend that time in Riverrun or the Eyrie, with their mother’s kin. King’s Landing had never been considered, and he was still ambivalent of doing even that much.

“I doubt His Grace would refuse if I asked,” Eddard finally said. Before Jon could press him further, he changed the subject. “One of the courtiers the king is bringing with him is Lord Tywin’s heir. What can you tell me about him, and what we can do to accommodate him?”

Jon’s expression brightened. “Tyrion? He shouldn’t be any trouble at all. We’ll need candles, of course, as well as some mead and…”

Eddard stopped focusing as his nephew began listing the ways to make Tyrion Lannister more comfortable. His eyes went to the path before them, heading out towards the winter town. But his mind was still on his children, and what the future held for them both north and south of the Neck.

Robb would have to remain, Eddard knew that with a certainty, and Rickon was still too young. Arya might benefit from time in the south, but her wild ways and attitude gave Ned pause. _Another year or so, to see if she calms some._ Bran’s fondness for swords and tales of chivalry had always been understood, but of late it had become an obsession. Rodrik Cassel had started joking of how Eddard’s son followed their resident Kingsguard as faithfully as one of the direwolf pups. Ned expected that Bran would have to be sent to foster within two years, though he still was not sure where.

_That leaves Sansa._ Eddard had little doubt that his eldest daughter would thrive in a southron court. In many ways, she acted more a southern lady then a northern one, though he knew that there was steel beneath it all. While that hardness would serve her well, he did not think she was ready for the capital. _She needs real experience in a southron court. That brings us back to Riverrun or the Eyrie._

“Uncle?”

Eddard blinked. He realized that they had reached the gatehouse where the castle ended and the winter town began. Jon had stopped talking and was looking at him with confusion. “I’m sorry, Jon, what was that?”

The youth sighed. “Do you think Father will ask anything of you?”

“Why? Is there something you think he will? Or are you worried about what he might ask?”

Jon shrugged. “Both, I suppose. It’s just, well, he hasn’t named a new Hand yet. Do you think he may ask you to serve?”

Ned blinked. He _hadn’t_ considered that, truth be told. _Though I expect Luwin and Cat have._ He thought a moment before answering Jon. “I doubt it, lad. I dislike the capital, the games the flatterers and snakes play, and I am still the Lord of Winterfell. My place is here.”

“Those are all reasons for you to say no. That doesn’t mean he won’t ask.”

Eddard was startled by that. He knew Jon was no fool, but that observation suggested the prince knew more about the games Ned decried then he let on. _I suppose that’s to be expected._

Jon was still speaking. “You’re dislike of intrigue and honorable reputation make you ideal. Some might call you self-serving, but few would believe it. It would also send a good message to the lords who fought alongside Robert Baratheon, replacing one of his former supporters with another.”

“You know, Jon,” Eddard said slowly, “With a mind like that, perhaps he should make you Hand instead.”

Jon’s face became hard with that. “That place has no appeal for me. I don’t want to go back. And I don’t think you should go either.”

Eddard smiled. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, come what may. Now then, Cat is out here somewhere, so I should get moving. Are you and your companion joining me?”

Jon shook his head. “I’ll be late for my training with Barristan. Uncle.” He bowed and started walking back the way they had come. Then he stopped and turned back to look at Eddard. “Father shouldn’t ask you. If he does, please say no.”

Ned frowned as the youth resumed his path back towards Winterfell’s heart. He appreciated Jon’s concern, but the tone he had spoken in had been tinged with fear, which was all the more odd considering the subject of his ire. _That is what I don’t understand. Why this ambivalence about his father?_

Once, Eddard would have been pleased to see such. What Rhaegar’s actions had cost the North and House Stark had stoked a resentment and anger that seemed all-consuming. Only the knowledge that Benjen and Jon were in his power had kept Ned from defying the man. Later, when his nephew had been sent to Winterfell, Eddard had sworn that he would not let Jon become like Rhaegar. And he had been pleased to watch his sister’s son become the prince that he was.

Yet in truth, Ned had been less successful then he had hoped. Jon did not have the constant melancholy his father had possessed and was rumored to still have, but the youth’s mind could go to dark places. Eddard didn’t blame him for that- raised in the snake’s pit that was the capital, experiencing war firsthand before he was seven, it was no wonder that Jon was not the walking sunbeam his brother was purported to be. Still, where once he had nothing but good to say of his father, there had been a change over the last year that Ned found disquieting.   _I only hope that Rhaegar’s presence might change it. I have no love for the man, but tension between him and Jon will do no one any good._

“Ned!” He glanced up to see his wife riding towards him, with Rodrik riding just behind. Catelyn dismounted as she came to his side and embraced him. He returned the gesture, smiling as she pulled away with matching expression. “We saw Jon. Where is he?”

“On his way back,” Ned replied. “Barristan’s been driving him hard, and that hasn’t changed.”

“He does like his swords.”

“Him and every other lad his age. Rodrik.” Ned nodded at the old knight, who bowed in reply. “How’s the town?”

“Busier than ever, my lord,” Rodrik replied. “By my tally, three-fourths full. There’ll be more before the king get here, but I doubt it’ll get to more than four-fifths.”

“That should be more than enough,” Cat pointed out. “And if not, we’ll find a way to make room.”

Ned nodded.  He glanced at Rodrik. “The lady and I need to return. Give us some distance, we need to speak. Privately.”

The knight nodded. Eddard turned, waiting until Cat followed suit to begin walking. After a few moments he glanced back to see Rodrik leading the two horses behind them, hanging roughly ten feet back.

“What is it, Ned?” Catelyn asked, her expression concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure, Cat.” He sighed. “Jon and I were just speaking about his father, about the reason that Rhaegar came himself. I swear, the lad knows more about politics than half the lords in the North.”

“Blame Barristan for that,” Cat replied. “He thinks a prince needs to know how court games work, to better avoid them. And I doubt his letters with Tyrion Lannister helped.”

That had been one of the unexpected developments in Winterfell. Jon had only been there for a few months before the letter had arrived from the Imp. To the surprise of most, Jon, all of eight, had replied, and the two had exchanged letters ever since. They came and went every month or so, almost as often as Jon’s letters with his older brother or his aunt. _The dwarf even outwrote Jon’s father. I still don’t understand how._

“Well,” Eddard found himself saying, “Jon seems to think that Rhaegar may offer me the office of Hand.”

Cat stared at him. “Do you think his father or someone in his family told him so?”

“No, he’s just suspicious. If he _knew_ , he would have told me so.”

Catelyn nodded. “Well, if the king does offer, you can’t refuse.”

Ned couldn’t stop the breath from leaving him. “The hell I can’t. It’d do no good for me to go to King’s Landing, Hand or not.”

“We can’t offend him by saying no,” his wife insisted. “It would only endanger our relationship with the crown.”

“That relationship isn’t exactly close, Cat.”

“Not now.” She looked sharply at him. “But Rhaegar won’t be king forever. When he passes and Prince Aegon succeeds him, then Jon will stand at his side.”

“And House Stark could benefit. Yes, Luwin said as much.” _She sees more opportunity than danger in King’s Landing._ Ned couldn’t tell if that made her braver or rasher than him. Likely it made her both.

Still, he was far from convinced. “We do not know if that will be the case. Their letters aside, Aegon and Jon have had no meaningful contact for seven years, Cat. And no one who goes near the throne is safe, even the king’s kin.” _Or the king himself._

Catelyn sighed. “Ned, the danger isn’t as great as you think. Rhaegar isn’t Aerys.”

Eddard frowned. “Neither is Tywin Lannister, but I still wouldn’t send any of our children to Casterly Rock.”

“No, just let your nephew correspond with its heir.”

Ned growled, but there was no fierceness in it. Cat rarely teased him, and there was never harm intended when she did. _A ploy to make me lower my guard. If Jon and the other haven't learned anything of intrigue from her, I’m Brandon the Builder._

“Nothing is decided, even now,” Eddard said shortly. “A king’s power is not considered lightly. We can only wait and see what the king wants.”

“Of course.” Catelyn nodded as she spoke. “But we cannot forget what he might offer, and what he might accept. My father once said that power is like a sword without a hilt; there’s no safe way to grasp it. But a sword without a hilt is still a sword, Ned, and some are sharper than others.”

“The king’s is sharpest of all, and our family can benefit from it, if wielded properly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be in Winterfell for several more chapters. The next will take us to the king's arrival, and the others will follow each other very closely. After that, there'll be a month or so jump forward. I won't say where to, but that should become clear as the story advances.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	21. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king comes to Winterfell, and pays his respects.

** Jon **

The courtyard was filled with the household of Winterfell. Men and women, young and old- they all waited anxiously as the royal party grew nearer. It was no surprise- kings were rare north of the Neck, and this particular king had history with House Stark that no other had.

  _I suppose I’m living proof of that._ Jon glanced next to him, where his uncle stood with the grim expression he was known for. Ned returned his glance, his expression softening for a moment as he nodded to Jon. The prince returned the gesture, then turned his head as the first riders came into view.

The party was lead by household guards, dressed in leather and chainmail with the badge of House Targaryen sown to their clothing. Jon hadn’t known any of them very well before leaving King’s Landing and doubted that would change. His uncle knew the names of every man and woman in Winterfell, but his father had a far larger household and domain to manage, making names a luxury.

That was not the case of the men who came riding just behind. Three knights in white armor with cloaks as pale as snow rode behind the guards, the light from the overcast sky turning the steel to silver. On Jon’s right, he could sense Barristan’s stance shifting as he caught sight of his sworn brothers.

“That one is Ser Arys Oakheart,” Jon heard Arya whisper to Bran, “and the one to his right is Ser Humphrey, the Hightower knight. The one behind him-”

Arya’s voice cut off. She must have realized what Jon had already observed. _That is not Ser Arthur. He’s not tall enough, and too slim. That means…_

Jon’s eyes widened as he looked once more at his uncle. Surprise was etched into the Lord of Winterfell’s gaze as his younger brother removed his helm and nodded. Benjen had more lines on his face than when Jon had last seen him, and was tanner as well, but otherwise the northman looked unchanged. Ned looked as if he meant to address his brother, but Jon watched as his uncle set his expression and turned to watch the king ride into view.

Jon stared as his father reigned in his horse beside the Kingsguard. Unlike Benjen, the king’s face looked as if no time had passed since he and Jon had said farewell on Pyke. He was dressed for travel, wearing riding leathers and gloves, with a black hooded cloak lined with fur. The leather was also dark, near enough to black, and around his neck was a silver necklace with a ruby dragon pendant hanging about it. Rhaegar’s crown was nowhere in evidence, though Jon could make out the shape of rings underneath his father’s gloves. It was not _what_ his father wore, but rather the _quality_ of it that screamed wealth and power at those who looked it over.

Behind him, Jon could make out the banners of a few other houses among the many Targaryen flags. The golden lion of Lannister was there, along with the Martell sun and a score of others. While Jon could not find faces to place with most of the banners, he did manage to glimpse the figure who the sigil of Casterly Rock flew for.

Tyrion Lannister looked much the same as the last time they had spoken. The dwarf’s mismatched eyes were sharp as they surveyed the area around him, though Jon thought he saw boredom in the Lannister’s eyes. When their gazes met, Tyrion nodded at him and smiled. That was all they managed, though, before Jon’s father brought everyone’s attention back to him.

The king dismounted as more riders and carriages pulled into view behind him. As his feet touched the ground Jon’s uncle knelt, while his family and all the others in the courtyard followed suit. Jon’s gaze left his father as he looked at the ground.

It only lasted a moment. “Rise, all of you,” the king declared in a loud voice, “I’ve kept you waiting too long as it is."

Jon glanced at Barristan as they rose, who shrugged as they did so. The king looked about before settling his gaze on Jon. Rhaegar walked forward until he was standing less than a foot in front of the prince. His amethyst eyes narrowed as he looked Jon up and down. The intensity of the gaze made him straighten, as if seeking to become taller. _What is he looking for?_

It felt like years passed before his father spoke. “You’ve grown.”

Jon did not know how to respond. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace?” The king’s expression softened as he raised an eyebrow. “I trust you know you need not use such formalities with me, Jon.”

Jon blinked. “Oh course, Your- Father.” He could hear Ser Rodrik’s voice berating him in his mind. _Did you leave your wits in the training yard?_

The king turned and stepped over to his uncle. “Lord Eddard. You are looking well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” Ned bowed his head slightly as he said those words. Jon saw his eyes flicker towards Benjen for a moment before returning to Jon’s father. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“It was, save for the snowfall in White Harbor.” Rhaegar shook his head in wonder. “I had read that the North experienced snow in late summer, but it is one thing to read of it and another to see it in person. In honesty, I had hoped the snow might find us again here.”

“It may yet, if the winds are steady.”

“Hmm.” Rhaegar walked to Ned’s left, bowing his head as Jon’s aunt gave a small curtsy. Unlike her husband, Catelyn smiled as she addressed the king. “Your Grace. I hope you find the hospitality of Winterfell as warm as the snow from your journey was cold.”

Rhaegar smiled as he assured her of his confidence of that. The king then looked down to where Rickon clutched at his mother's skirt, but the child buried his face in said skirt rather than face Jon's father. The king did not seem troubled, simply smiling before passing to their left.

As he moved on to Robb, Jon took a moment to glance at Benjen, an unspoken question in his gaze. His uncle merely shrugged and jerked his head towards Jon’s father. That did nothing to answer him and made the prince’s curiosity grow.

_You’ve been with Aegon since Pyke. How are you here, and why?_

“You must be the Lady Sansa.” Jon’s gaze returned to the king as Sansa mimicked her mother and curtsied before him. Rhaegar nodded his head. “My son spoke of his kin’s fair looks often in his letters. I see he did not exaggerate.”

Fair did not do her justice. Sansa’s auburn hair had been brushed out and fell halfway to her waist. Her dress was steely blue, a few shades lighter than the darker cloth her mother wore. Its embroidery was silver, with weirwood branches stretching across the skirt and direwolves racing through them up onto her torso. Her figure, willowy and as tall as Jon, was complemented by the dress. The dress’ color complemented Sansa’s auburn locks, while her vivid blue eyes completed the picture.

Jon had needed an elbow from Barristan to stop staring when Sansa had first entered the courtyard. Thankfully, she had not seemed to notice, though Jon suspected others had.

Sansa blushed as she thanked the king for his compliment. As he passed on towards Bran and Arya, she turned to look at Jon, her expression a mixture of gratitude and fluster. Jon flushed at the look, discomfited by it and the words that had brought it about. _Of course he talks about my letters._

His father had come to the youngest of the Stark children. Bran gaped at the king but managed to close his mouth as Rhaegar smiled down before greeting him.

Jon was surprised by what happened next. Rhaegar’s expression changed as he found Arya. For a moment the calm and friendliness were gone, replaced by surprise, pain, and longing. But the moment passed, and the king’s expression returned to its kind and friendly look he had used with Bran. “And you are?”

“Arya!” She curtsied, then smiled at the king. “It’s nice to meet you, Your Grace.”

Jon heard his aunt sigh at that, but his father did not seem put off at all. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Lady Arya.” The king turned and walked back to Jon’s uncle. “You have a lovely family, Lord Eddard. The gods have been kind.”

“Your Grace.” Next to Jon, Barristan addressed the king. Rhaegar turned as the knight took a knee. “I trust you are well.”

“Of course, Ser Barristan.” Rhaegar gestured towards the three Kingsguard standing behind him. “Your sworn brothers have done their duty well during your absence.”

“ _Our_ absence, Your Grace.” Benjen grinned at Barristan. “I can’t take much credit. Too busy rescuing His Grace’s eldest from rosebushes.”

“How is the Prince Aegon?” Catelyn interjected, looking curiously at Benjen and Jon’s father. “Did he accompany you here after all, Your Grace?”

“No, he did not.” Rhaegar sighed. “My party had just finished preparing to depart when Ser Benjen arrived in King’s Landing. My older son had ordered him there, to accompany me to Winterfell.”

“How thoughtful. I will have to write to him, to say thank you.”

The king smiled. “None are necessary, my lady. It has been too long since this Stark returned to Winterfell. I saw the wisdom of Aegon’s decision, so Ser Benjen is here, while the Lord-Commander remains in the capital with my son and wife.”

His smile faded as he glanced at Jon. The prince thought he saw guilt in his father’s eyes, though he couldn’t say what it was for. _Is it for sending me away? Or my being here at all?_

But the king’s next words quickly changed Jon’s thinking. “Lord Stark, where are the crypts?” Rhaegar turned to look at Ned, his expression determined. “I wish to pay my respects.”

“Your Grace,” Catelyn said with a tinge of worry, “Perhaps you and the royal party should be settled in before doing so. It has been a long journey, and I’m sure there are some with you who could benefit from the rest.”

“Why, thank you, Lady Stark!”

The new voice cut through the air and Rhaegar’s response. Jon turned from them to look at the carriage door from where it had come, and the young woman who had just finished descending it.

_By the gods, Dany’s grown up._ Jon’s aunt was the blood of Old Valyria, anyone who looked at her could see that. Daenerys’ dress was black, with silver embroidery lining its skirt and sleeves. She was a full head shorter than Jon, with her silver-gold hair falling past her shoulders almost to her waist. Her figure was not as slim as any of the Stark women, voluptuous where Lady Catelyn and her daughters were willowy. Her face was pale, though not unhealthy, and her eyes were an even deeper purple than Jon’s father.

Jon’s gaze moved again as he caught movement behind his aunt. Four young women were emerging from the carriage as well. One of them looked much like Daenerys- silver hair and purple eyes, though these were far lighter than hers or Jon’s fathers. If he had to guess, he’d say she hailed from Dragonstone or one of its neighboring isles.

Behind her came two Sand Snakes. Jon nodded in greeting as his gaze caught Nymeria’s, who returned the gesture. Behind her came a fair-skinned young woman with blonde hair, whose smile did not come to her eyes. If Jon hadn’t recognized Tyene, he likely never would have guessed at her parentage, or her reputation. Dany had described her often in her letters, though, and Jon knew better than to be taken in by the Dornishwoman’s lovely features.

He only spared Tyene a glance before his eyes found his older sister, who returned the look. Rhaenys was beautiful, no man could question that. Her dress was striking, a mix of Targaryen black with Martell gold embroidery. Her form was slimmer than Daenerys’, and her raven hair shone in the daylight. Her eyes were a dark brown, though Jon knew they could seem purple in the right light. _We have that much in common, at least._

 Rhaenys did not smile, unlike the others. Her expression was alert and interested, but there was no warmth in it as she looked at Jon. After a moment, his sister’s gaze left him to scan the courtyard and the people in it. The look on her face never changed, showing nothing of her thoughts as Rhaenys observed Winterfell.

_She does not think these walls are safe._ Jon couldn’t blame her for that- King’s Landing taught one quickly to mistrust the appearance of safety, regardless of where they were. Still, Jon couldn’t help the resentment that stirred as he watched her take in the surroundings.

He tore his eyes from Rhaenys as Daenerys walked forward, smiling as she did. She came to stand beside the king and curtsied to the lord and lady before her. “Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. It is so good to meet you at last.”

“My sister, Princess Daenerys,” Rhaegar announced.

“Princess.” Ned bowed slightly, doing so again as Jon’s father introduced Rhaenys a moment later. “Your Grace, the rooms and meals have been prepared. I suppose you’ll want to rest some before the feast tonight. May I-”

“Lord Eddard.” The king’s voice was quiet, but the steel in it was apparent to all. “I’ve waited fourteen years. I don’t intend to wait any longer.”

Jon’s uncle stared at Rhaegar then, the king returning the look. Gray eyes met purple, with enough animosity that for a moment Jon thought the two might begin to openly quarrel.

Fortunately, Ned appeared to realize that delaying was useless. “Very well, then. If Your Grace insists, then I can take-”

“Lord Eddard.” Jon’s voice rose before he realized it himself. “I can show my father to the crypts myself. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.” _It has been a while. And I don’t think Father and Uncle Ned should be left alone with my mother._

The northman looked at Jon with concern, then turned to look at the king with a raised eyebrow. Rhaegar looked back at him, looked at Jon again, then nodded. Eddard sighed before nodding. “As you wish, Jon.”

“Barristan.” The king looked at the old Kingsguard. “Accompany us. Benjen, you and the others see the royal party is settled in, we’ll be back before long.”

“Your Grace.” Benjen motioned to one of the guards, who turned and began calling out to the royal party while the rest of the courtyard burst into activity. Jon saw Rhaenys and Daenerys both start to speak with the Starks gathered in front of them before his attention was called back to his father.

“Lead the way, Jon.”

“Yes, Father.” Jon turned and began walking towards the entrance to the crypts. Behind him, he heard the king and Ser Barristan begin speaking quietly, their words too faint for him to make out.

_Do they speak of Winterfell, or me, or both?_ Questions buzzed in Jon’s mind, but he suppressed them as they came towards the crypt entrance.

The old ironwood door was as heavy as ever. Jon had to grit his teeth as he pushed against it. The door was stubborn but yielded after a few moments.

Jon grabbed the torch just outside the door before entering, while the king and his knight followed. The air was colder than outside, even just past the doorway. Stone statues looked down on them as they passed through, ancient Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell. Jon recognized some of them- Theon the Hungry Wolf, Brandon the Shipbuilder, Edrick Snowbeard. But they were not the ones Jon and his father had come to visit.

As they descended, Rhaegar finally addressed him. “Do you come here often?”

“Not as much as I should,” Jon aid reluctantly. “The last was a few weeks ago, just before word of your coming reached here.”

“Ah. Lord Stark can’t have been happy about that.” Rhaegar sighed. “I must say, the little we’ve seen of the North has been refreshing. Wherever I go south of the Neck, there is always constant noise and movement. The cities are teeming with people, the fields overgrown with crops and food. Here, though, there is quiet, solitude. The people do not seem so much happy as content, and even so, they are still wary of misfortune.”

“Winter is coming,” Jon reminded his father. “The people of the North know that better than anyone south of the Neck. And a long summer often means a longer winter.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “I said as much to Pycelle. He insists that it is simply superstition, that there is no way to know how long or short the coming winter will be. We won’t know for some time, if the gods are good.”

Jon nodded, then stopped. “Just ahead, Father. On the left.” The king nodded, silent as they came to their destination.

Jon’s mother shared her section with two others. The tomb of Rickard Stark dominated the berth, his statue glaring sternly at the new guests. On either side were the statues of his two children, Brandon and Lyanna. The king only had eyes for the latter, though, his expression draining away as he walked to stand in front of her statue.

The moments seemed to stretch into lifetimes. Eventually, Jon’s father spoke. “This stone does not do her justice.” He turned his head to look at the other Starks, and then turned to look past Jon, to the rest of the vault and the shadows that lay within. “I cannot help but think this is not the right place for her.”

“This is where the Starks of Winterfell come after death,” Jon said, irritated by his father’s words. _Must he question the customs of others?_ “House Targaryen’s own are all cremated, it is our way. And this place is theirs.”

Rhaegar looked at him, curiosity and sadness in his gaze. He turned to look at the tomb’s surface, where withered flowers were strewn. He picked one up and examined it closely. “Winter roses. Your mother always loved these. Did you leave them here?”

“Not all of them. Uncle- Lord Eddard comes with me sometimes, he brings them as well. Some of the others come every now and then as well, they-”

“Yes, yes. It is good that they honor their fallen kin.” Rhaegar sighed as he rubbed his eyes. He missed the look Jon gave him, his irritation flashing into anger. Barristan saw it, though, and gave Jon a disapproving look. Jon flushed and looked at the ground, knowing the chastisement was warranted. _The most dangerous swordsmen are the ones who never reveal their thoughts, or their actions._

“Speak truly, Jon.” He looked up to see the king staring at him with a sharp look in his eyes. “Your letters to me and Daenerys say you have been well. How much of that was truth?”

“All of it.” Jon’s irritation took the deference from his voice. “I wouldn’t lie, there’s no reason to.”

“No?” The king raised an eyebrow. “Benjen said much the same. He insisted that Winterfell was safer for you than any other place, even more so than at my side. But I have learned the hard way that appearances can be misleading.”

Jon might have argued against his father once. But he was no longer a child and knew better than to dismiss those concerns himself. While he knew that no Stark would ever consider hurting him, not all the northern lords shared that faith. While they all followed Lord Eddard’s lead in practice, the Greatjon had made no secret of his dislike at Jon’s presence, and Roose Bolton had always eyed him when he visited, the ice in his eyes flashing whenever their eyes had met. They were not alone in their thinking, Jon knew that much.

“They see the son of their enemy,” Jon’s uncle had once told him. “Lyanna’s letter and Rhaegar’s proposal may have brought us to your father’s side, but too many northman lost their lives to the loyalists of House Targaryen. They find it easier to blame Rhaegar for their lost kin. As his son, you make a convenient target, as they cannot touch the man himself.”

Eddard might have been speaking of himself. Jon’s uncle had nothing but goodwill for _him_ , but Jon knew even now that the goodwill was his alone. His uncle and father were still far from reconciled, and he doubted anything would change that.

“Appearances can lie, but that does not mean they always do,” Jon found himself saying. “Winterfell has treated me well, as have its people.”

Rhaegar stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Good. Now tell me, your cousins, what do you think of them? The older ones, Robb and Sansa, they seem a good sort.”

“They are.” Jon nodded, his mind lightening as he spoke. “Robb reminds me of Egg, just a little less confident. Strong and quick, with a brain beneath the bluster. He’ll make a great Lord of Winterfell, when the time comes. And Sansa, she’s not only beautiful, she’s charming, well-mannered, and one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met…”

Jon trailed off as his father’s expression became thoughtful. The king glanced past him, sharing a look with Barristan before looking at Jon once more. “It is good to hear you speak so well of your kin. That does much to allay my concerns.”

Before Jon could ask him what those concerns were, his father moved on. “Your brother sends his regards. Aegon regretted that he could not join me on my journey to Winterfell, but it could not be helped.”

“Yes.” _Do I ask now or later?_ Jon bit his lip before deciding the former. “Father, if I may ask, why did you come here yourself? Barristan and I always thought you’d send a raven, but this seems a bit much…”

“You are not the only reason I am here, Jon.” Rhaegar glanced at the statue of Jon’s mother before motioning back towards the crypt entrance. The two of them began walking while Barristan hung back, giving them space.

“The North has gone too long without seeing its king,” Rhaegar went on, “and I hope that my presence may help earn some goodwill with its lords. Also, Lord-Commander Baratheon has written to me often, urging the crown to provide men and supplies to the Wall, along with reports of this Mance Rayder. I thought it wise to see for myself how the Night’s Watch fares, to better judge what the crown can do to help.”

“I was at Castle Black half a year ago, with Lord Eddard and some others,” Jon pointed out. “The Watch does need aid, and the lords whose lands border it would surely appreciate the crown’s attention.” _Visiting the black brothers will help, if goodwill is what Father is after._

Then something else occurred to him. “You mean to visit our kinsman as well, don’t you? Aemon mentioned that you and he used to share letters.”

Jon hadn’t known what to make of the old maester when they had met. Confusion had given way to astonishment as he had learned of the man’s history, and of his kinship with Jon and the other members of House Targaryen. Jon was still confused even now, but he appreciated the wisdom Aemon clearly possessed in spades, and expected his father hoped to benefit from that.

Sure enough, Rhaegar nodded. “Indeed, we did and still do. It is high time we spoke in person, though, and this journey will give me that opportunity.”

_But then…_ “Will Rhaenys and Dany accompany you?”

“No, they will return to White Harbor after my time in Winterfell is done, and from there to King’s Landing.” Jon’s father paused as they reached the crypt entrance. “You will accompany them part of the way, when the times comes.”

Jon felt his heart grow heavy with those words. “So, I am returning to the capital.”

“Yes and no. You will sail from White Harbor, it is true, but you will not go to King’s Landing with your sister and aunt. I intend for you to go elsewhere before coming to the capital.”

Jon looked at his father in bafflement, but he continued speaking before Jon could ask anything more. “And when you go, I do not intend for you to travel alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long gap between chapters, sorry about that. The next one will come soon. Get cozy, Winterfell's playing host to our cast for a while yet.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	22. Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord and ladies reach upward, while a king ponders their climb.

** Catelyn **

The Great Hall was busier than it had been in years. The royal party had brought its fair share of servants and mouths to feed, and the king had commanded that his entourage do all in its power to help House Stark manage the chaos that his arrival had brought. But even with their help, it would be a miracle if there was no mishap during the king’s visit.

Catelyn sighed as the servants and household around her scrambled to prepare the hall for the feast that was to come. The king’s arrival the day before had been later than expected, which had proven fortunate for their larders. His daughter had complained of weariness from travel, and so he and Ned had agreed to postpone the welcoming feast until the next night. While the children had been disappointed by the delay, it had saved Winterfell a good amount of food and drink, for which Catelyn was grateful.

“Cat.” She turned towards the dais, where her husband had just finished speaking with Ser Rodrik. Ned walked over to her, concern on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Ned, I’m fine,” she assured him. “It’s one thing to plan for a royal visit, but quite another to actually manage one. I am adjusting, that is all.”

“Good.” Her husband smiled. “Gods know Winterfell is only still standing thanks to you. I don’t think we could manage without those wits of yours.”

Catelyn joined in his laughter. His mood had been more somber than usual as of late, which was worrying though not surprising. She knew that Rhaegar’s presence was one Ned found troubling, and that unease was shared by others in Winterfell.

“Speaking of wits,” he continued, “one of the servants told me that Tyrion Lannister and Jon spent at least an hour speaking with each other in private this morning.”

Catelyn was surprised. She knew that Jon and the dwarf had exchanged letters, but to leap to private, hour-long meetings? “Did the servant know why?”

Ned shook his head as Catelyn mulled this new information. “Lannister is stunted, but it is said his mind is sharper than most men thrice his age. If that’s so, then Jon would do well to befriend him.” She sighed. “I suppose they may have just shared their stories of their travels, or perhaps Lord Tyrion was speaking to Jon of his uncle, Prince Viserys.”

“Perhaps.” Ned looked far from convinced but shrugged. “Well, if it was a matter of importance, I expect Jon will tell us.”

That was more likely than not. Jon was not one for keeping secrets, Cat knew that much. Still, that did not ease her mind entirely. The heir of Casterly Rock was said to be a confidant of the king and if the reason that he and Jon had spoken was royal business, Catelyn didn’t know how much Jon would tell them, if anything at all.

The last evening had suggested as much. After he and the king had returned from the crypts, Jon’s mood had been grim, to say the least. At first Catelyn had thought it had just been the circumstances- visiting his mother’s tomb often made Jon somber. But when she had asked after what had happened while he and Rhaegar were alone, Jon had only told her that his father wanted the conversation to be kept private.

Laughter tore Catelyn from the memory. She and Eddard turned towards one of the Great Hall’s door as the king’s daughter walked through with her attendants. Rhaenys may have plead weariness the day before, but she showed none of it now. It seemed the night’s rest had done its work well. _That’s if any work needing to be done in the first place._

“I suppose we should say good morning,” Ned muttered.

Cat noticed the discomfort in his tone and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Ned, she won’t bite.”

Her husband rolled his eyes but walked with her toward their guests.

The olive-skinned woman with Rhaenys saw them first. She dropped into a curtsy, her paler counterpart following suit next to her. “Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn.”

“Lady Nymeria, Lady Tyene.” Catelyn was uneasy in these women’s company. She had been startled to learn that the two princesses were attended by two of the infamous Sand Snakes. It was one thing to allow them at court, but she had never imagined that the king would allow them such direct access to his kin. _Their blood ties aside, that a princess is being attended by bastard-born women is hard to believe._

But Rhaenys was, and Catelyn knew better than to say anything about it. “We heard that you were an early riser, Princess Rhaenys. How do you find Winterfell?”

“A bit grim, if I am being honest.” The princess smiled apologetically at Cat’s husband. “I mean no insult, Lord Eddard. But this is my first time north of the Neck and cannot help but long for the castles and climes of my home.”

“No explanation is needed, princess.” Ned nodded. “I feel the same ache whenever I chance to travel south. One cannot expect to travel to new places and not feel uncomfortable.”

Rhaenys laughed. “I suppose so. Forgive me, the ladies Nymeria and Tyene just accompanied me to my prayers. Your godswood is truly inspiring, Lord Stark. The weirwood is a wonder I have never seen the like of. I do not keep the old gods myself, though, so I found myself using your sept this morning. How long has it been here, if I may ask?”

Catelyn spoke at that. “A little less than fifteen years. Ned had it built for me, so that I could pray to the gods of my father and House Tully.”

“Truly? How thoughtful.” The words came from Tyene, who smiled sweetly at Catelyn. “It is good to hear that you found such a warm welcome in the North, Lady Catelyn. In Dorne, one’s led to believe northmen more likely to attack outsiders than welcome them.”

 _Is that a slight?_ Catelyn wasn’t sure. Nor it appeared was Ned, who frowned and began to speak.

Tyene acted before he could. The woman gasped, her hand coming to her mouth as a shocked and embarrassed expression came onto her face. “Oh, I am sorry, that sounded so much better in my head. Please, my lord, don’t take what I said to heart.”

Ned was off-balance, anyone could see that. Catelyn felt a mixture of amusement at her husband’s expression and irritation at who had caused it.

Rhaenys’ other attendant spoke at that. “In all honesty, the people of Dorne are much the same. Outsiders may come and go, but the people are ever wary, even after years of peace.” Nymeria sighed. “It is strange, is it not? Even a century after Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms, we do not feel as much a part of it as the rest.”

“No, my lady.” Ned’s face became grim as he spoke. “The people of the North often feel similarly, though it varies from man to man. History and distance can do much to make the rest of Westeros feel very far away.”

The three women nodded at her husband’s words. Rhaenys opened her mouth to speak, but then a voice called out from behind them.

“Lord Eddard?” Cat turned to see Luwin walking towards them. “Forgive me, but Ser Benjen asked me to tell you to seek him out, if you were not already engaged.”

Her husband turned to look at Rhaenys, who quickly nodded her head. “Please, Lord Stark, do go on. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you, princess.” Ned surprised Catelyn by bowing slightly, then turned and walked away with Luwin.

Catelyn turned and smiled at Rhaenys. “I must thank you as well, princess. Ned has been very happy to have his brother back in Winterfell and has been looking for more time to spend with him.”

“Thank Aegon, not me. And please, do call me Rhaenys, my lady. We are in your home, after all.”

“I meant what I said, my lady,” Tyene spoke again, drawing Cat’s attention back to her. “What was it like, adapting to Winterfell and its people?”

Catelyn hesitated for a moment before replying. “It was difficult, I will not lie. Yet much time has passed since then, and now it’s hard to imagine living anywhere else.”

Difficult did not describe the struggles she had done through. Earning the respect of the common people had been challenging enough, but the northern lords had proven as hard to win over as untamed destriers. Even now, Catelyn knew there were some who questioned her place, and the power she held in Winterfell and the North. And there were days when she thought with longing of her father’s seat in Riverrun. But she was not about to admit that, especially not to the smiling young woman in front of her.

In truth, Cat would have been wary even if she hadn’t known these women’s parentage. Jon had occasionally spoke of his sister, and the Dornish kin who she kept so close. While he had only spoken with fondness of Nymeria, he had minced no words in describing her cunning. That had gone doubly so for Tyene, with no fondness to soften the edge in his tone.

“I see.” Rhaenys looked at Catelyn quizzically. “In truth, it felt almost as if I was intruding, in the godswood that is. Have you ever had that feeling, my lady?”

“Yes, I have,” she responded reluctantly. “Though it has felt more alive these past few weeks.”

Nymeria laughed. “I’d wager that your children’s pets have something to do with that.”

She was right about that. While they either slept in the kennels or in the children’s rooms, the direwolves liking for Winterfell’s godswood was apparent to all. They would enter the enclosed forest and manage to disappear for hours, with only her children and Jon being able to summon them back out.

“Your daughters and two older sons are out there right now, with my aunt and brother as well,” Rhaenys explained. “Daenerys is very taken with the direwolves, and they seem to return the favor.” Her words were friendly, but her expression became cool. Catelyn could guess why.

She had already risen when the group had struck out for the godswood. Robb was clearly infatuated with the king’s sister, who had handled her son kindly but firmly. Arya had been doing her best to interrogate Daenerys about King’s Landing and Jon’s years there, while Jon himself had been doing his best not to let his aunt give any of his secrets away. Bran had just been struggling to get a word in, his expression impatient as he attempted to interrupt Arya as often as he could, while Sansa had been doing her best to mediate the talk among all the others.

Sansa’s rapport with the princess had surprised her. In truth, Catelyn had been worried by Sansa’s initial meeting with Daenerys. While her daughter’s courtesies had been perfect, Cat had noticed how she had scanned the young Targaryen from head to toe, taking in everything about her. What had told more than that, though, was the expression of dismay when the princess and Jon had smiled at each other in the courtyard. Sansa had been unusually subdued after Jon and his father left for the crypts and had not seemed to improve for the rest of the day.

This morning, though, Sansa had acted as if she and the princess were already good friends. The latter had been given chambers adjacent to Arya’s and Sansa’s during the king’s stay, and Catelyn had been told by a servant that the three had spent much of the last night speaking with one another, while Nymeria and the Velaryon girl had waited without. _I wonder what was said, to make Sansa’s mood improve so much._

Rather than pursue that subject, she decided to change it. “Prin- Rhaenys, if I may ask, what has court been like these past few weeks? Before you traveled here, I mean.”

The young woman’s expression became sad. “The court was in mourning for much of it. The lord Hand was a good man, well-loved by highborn and lowborn alike. Father has kept things well in hand though, and I expect things will be back to normal when we return, especially with Aegon returned to us.”

There was no mistaking the way Rhaenys’ expression warmed as she spoke of her and Jon’s brother. Catelyn had wanted to avoid this subject but saw no way around it now. “I have heard he will not be alone. The Prince Viserys will be returning from Casterly Rock, or so the tales have said.”

The princess’ expression lost its warmth, though it lacked any hostility. “Yes, my uncle will be returning before long. My father has made no secret of it, he intends for House Targaryen to reunite in the coming months.” She paused a moment before adding, “That means Jon will be coming south soon, possibly with us.”

Catelyn knew that much. While few spoke of it openly in Winterfell, the absence of Jon and Ser Barristan would be felt strongly, by her children more than anyone else. Ned was unhappy at the prospect himself. _As am I, truth be told._

Catelyn pushed the thought away. There was much that had yet to be decided, and she would not sadness find its way into her mind when there was not yet a cause for it.

“Oh, look,” Nymeria said suddenly, her gaze going over Catelyn’s shoulder, “Your lord husband is returned to us.”

Cat turned to look, and sure enough Ned had reentered the hall and was walking towards them. She had expected his mood to be improved after speaking with Benjen, but his expression was serious. _I hop nothing has happened._

“Princess.” Her husband bowed slightly before turning to Catelyn. “Benjen wasn’t asking for himself. The king would like to speak with me. I asked him if you could join us, and he said yes. Best not to keep him waiting.”

“Indeed not.” Rhaenys curtsied, her two companions following suit. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord, the ladies and I have to be going. Please give my father my love.”

Ned nodded as the princess and the Sand Snakes walked across the Great Hall. Then he turned back towards her. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

“Into the dragon’s lair,” Catelyn said jokingly.

Ned scowled. “For now, at least.”

Together, they turned and walked out of the Great Hall.

Rhaegar’s chambers weren’t hard to find- Ned and Cat had offered their own, for the duration of the king’s stay. While he had graciously declined, his chambers were still provided the best Winterfell had to offer and were located just down the hall from their own. It took only a few minutes to make the trip, but that was all the time it took for Catelyn to feel her heart’s pace pick up as they got closer. _So much hinges on this, may the gods look on Ned and me favorably._

When they reached the king’s door, Benjen was waiting without. He gave them an encouraging look as he turned an opened the door. “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn are here, Your Grace,” the knight said loudly.

“Enter,” Rhaegar’s voice called back. Eddard returned the Kingsguard’s nod as he and Cat walked past him into the king’s chamber.

There was little of the red-and-black of Targaryen in the furnishings provided, but the king did not seem to mind. He was seated at the table near the bed, while Ser Barristan stood behind him. The old knight gave them a nod before the king spoke.

“Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn.” He inclined his head as Ned bowed and Cat curtsied. “Winterfell is more beautiful than I had ever imagined it to be, as are the lands about it. I regret I did not come here sooner.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ned began, but the king held up a hand.

“Please, let us dispense with pleasantries. We have much to discuss.” He motioned to the other seats at the table. After glancing at each other, Catelyn and her husband took them.

“Yesterday, my son spoke to me of accompanying you to Castle Black earlier this year. While he has offered to tell me all I wish to know, I intend to travel there myself and see what state the Night’s Watch is in.”

 _That is no surprise._ Ned and Luwin had both guessed that the Rhaegar would wish to see the Wall while he was here. After all, he was unlikely to be this close to it again. Nevertheless, there was considerable risk in the king going to Castle Black. Besides the threat of wildlings, the vast majority of the men there, including the Lord-Commander, were there because of Rhaegar himself. Grudges died slowly, even if one swore the black brother’s oath.

“Lord Stark,” the king continued, “I had wondered if you would accompany me. If the rumors of this Mance Raydar's approach turn out to be true, then the North’s banners may need to be called. If that becomes necessary, then it may be wiser for you and I to both to be at the Wall already.”

Catelyn looked at Ned, who glanced at her before addressing Rhaegar. “I expected as much, Your Grace. If you ask, then I shall ride with you. Though I must be frank, I doubt the wildlings have become so bold or desperate to be that close already.”

“Very well then. If nothing surprising occurs, I expect to be underway in a fortnight, if that.”

 _A fortnight hosting a king and two princesses._ Catelyn’s stomach rolled at the knowledge of what that would cost Winterfell in supplies and coin. She gave nothing away, though.

“Your Grace.” Catelyn drew the king’s attention to her. “There will be a feast tonight, to welcome you and your kin to Winterfell. Does that please you?”

“Of course. I can think of nothing better than joining my hosts for food and drink. Let the North remember, that the direwolf and dragon stand united once more.”

 _Indeed._ Catelyn smiled. “I had wondered if there was anything you wished done for the feast tonight. If your daughter or sister wish, music could be played, and room could be made for dancing.”

Rhaegar nodded. “I think Rhaenys and Daenerys would both enjoy that. A number of camp followers and entertainers attached themselves to our party in White Harbor. I believe there’s at least one minstrel among them, and Daenerys herself plays the harp beautifully.”

“That is a very generous offer, Your Grace,” Catelyn said graciously, “I am sure that my children would be delighted to hear the princess play. If she as half as skilled as her brother, it shall make for a masterful performance.”

 “And tomorrow,” Ned spoke, “If Your Grace wishes it, I would invite you to join me for a hunt, in the wolfswood. The game is plentiful as of late, and I am sure that we would find and take fine quarry.”

“Just the two of us, Lord Stark?” Rhaegar raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not. My household will provide the beaters and hound, and your Kingsguard would accompany us. Jon will want to; he is a skilled tracker and enjoys pitting himself against the wilderness.”

The king looked surprised at that. “Truly? I had not been told that. Has this interest caused an inconvenience? I apologize if it has.”

“Not at all. There is no need, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Jon is a fine lad, and better than most. He’ll be an even better man, when the time comes.”

The king looked at Eddard. After a moment, Rhaegar motioned to Barristan, who nodded and then walked away. The knight stopped at the door and turned so that all three of them were in his sight. Catelyn glanced at him before returning her attention to the king.

Rhaegar spoke again. “Ser Barristan has told me much of how my son has fared since their arrival. I must admit, there were doubts in the back of my mind when I agreed to his fostering in Winterfell. But now I see those fears were misplaced, for my son and his guardian both attest to the upbringing you provided, Stark. For that, I must thank you.”

“I am as proud as you are, Your Grace. I have never made a better decision than request to foster him. We are all proud to call him family, me and my lady wife.”

“And our children,” Catelyn added. “We all think of Jon as if he is family. And…and we hope that we continue to do so, not just as a cousin, but as a goodbrother and son.”

This is what she had been contemplating since word came of the king’s approach. Jon was well loved by her children, and he returned it in full, but the affection ran deeper with Sansa, it had been since she and Robb had first managed to break through his armor when he had first arrived in Winterfell. While she had imagined such a thing for years, she had only begun planning in the last two months.

Ned had needed little convincing, and Luwin had spoken well of the idea as well. Catelyn had even approached Ser Barristan, to win the Kingsguard to her cause. While the knight had gently dismissed her entreaties, he had acknowledged her reasoning and said that, if asked, he would say as much to the king. With such a blessing, she had felt even more confident in the vision her mind held.

Catelyn had no doubt that, if not in love already, that it would be easy for the two to fall into it, especially if the circumstances were as she hoped. With Sansa wed to Jon, her daughter would be assured of a good future, with a royal spouse and all the advantages that entailed. House Stark would gain a bond to the Iron Throne, helping to cement its position as one of the Great Houses.

Unfortunately, the king was not indulging her by making his feelings on the matter obvious. Rhaegar’s expression gave nothing away as he looked between Catelyn and Ned. She could not tell what he was thinking, whether he favored the idea or not.

 _Better to press on rather than wait._ “Our daughter Sansa is a fine young woman, Your Grace,” Catelyn continued. “She is well-read, versed in both the gentle arts and the running of a household. She enjoys riding and hunting, like Jon does, and the two are affectionate enough already, ask anyone in Winterfell-”

Rhaegar raised a hand. “Lady Stark, please. I do not question your daughter’s suitability; I am sure she is.” The king sighed, surprising Catelyn by raising a hand and rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me. When I came to Winterfell, I had also thought to seal the Iron Throne and Winterfell with a marriage, yet it was not a match with Jon that I had in mind…”

Cat heard her husband’s sudden intake of breath, felt his hand tighten in her own. She squeezed hers in reply, reassuring Ned as she addressed the king. “What did you have in mind, Your Grace?”

“I had thought to offer my sister Daenerys to your heir, Robb,” Rhaegar replied. “He is a fine young man, and Daenerys is a sweet girl, intelligent and beautiful. I would not offer her to anyone.”

Rhaegar trailed off, his expression becoming pensive as his eyes found a spot behind their heads. After a few moments, the king seemed to reach a decision. “While I had not considered a match between my son and one of your daughters, neither do I have any reason to oppose it. But of course, if you insist on such a thing, then Daenerys can no longer be promised to your son. The crown has other alliances to consider, and the Seven Kingdoms may look unfavorably on two matches between House Stark and House Targaryen.”

_Sansa and Jon or Robb and Daenerys? Are those the roads that we must choose between?_

Catelyn knew which she preferred. Daenerys seemed a fine young woman, both from reputation, Jon’s descriptions and her time in Winterfell. But one day was not nearly enough to begin to know someone. Catelyn did know Jon and knew that he and Sansa would do well together.

There were also the implications for House Stark. Wedding Robb and Daenerys would certainly cement the bond between Winterfell and the Iron Throne. But while a younger sister and aunt would have a strong influence over the crown, a son and younger brother would have even more.

Besides, Catelyn and Ned had already begun considering matches for Robb, most of them hailing from the North, riverlands, or even the Vale. While not a royal match, such an alliance would yield more immediate gains for House Stark than such, which was likely to be needed soon, considering the growing rumblings from beyond the Wall.

Ned turned to look at her. Catelyn squeezed his hand, a gesture intended to reassure him of her confidence in his thinking. _I cannot be the one to ask this time. It must be him._

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Ned began, “I am honored that you would consider my house, and my son, for such a match. But if the decision is mine…” Her husband took a breath. “Then I would ask again that my daughter and your son wed. I could not hope for a better match, or a better goodson.”

For a moment there was silence. Catelyn held her breath as it stretched. And then it passed.

“Very well.” The king nodded, his voice steely as he spoke. “Your daughter and my son shall wed.”

Catelyn breathed again, “Oh, thank you, Your Grace. I swear, by old gods and new, this is the right decision, I swear it!”

“I know, my lady.” Rhaegar surprised her by smiling. Then he looked at Ned, his expression becoming somber though the smile remained. “I think that she would approve. Don’t you agree, Eddard?”

Her husband eyed the king carefully, then nodded. “Aye, I think she would, Rhaegar.”

“Has your daughter flowered?” Rhaegar looked at Catelyn questioningly.

“Yes, earlier this year, Your Grace,” Cat replied quickly.

The king nodded. “Even so, the wedding cannot take place for some time yet. Better to let them get used to it, as well as for the realm to adjust as well.”

“Perhaps in a year?” Eddard asked. “That should be enough time for all to become accustomed to the idea, both here and elsewhere.” As Rhaegar nodded, Ned continued, “I had a mind to settle some lands on Jon, though I have not decided where…”

“No.” Rhaegar’s voice was cold, as were the purple eyes that suddenly narrowed as they fixed on her husband. Catelyn bit her lip to see that expression, one that seemed incapable of warmth. “I appreciate such generosity, but my son’s future lies in the south. I shall acquire land for him and your daughter, but not in the North.”

After a moment, the king sighed and rubbed his face again. “Forgive my rudeness, there is much that needs considering.” Rhaegar looked past them. “Barristan, bring me the letter.”

The Kingsguard walked forward and handed the king a parchment, who showed the seal to Catelyn and Eddard. “From my elder son, in King’s Landing. It concerns your sister, Lady Catelyn, that is why I wanted you here for this.”

 _Lysa? Has something happened to her and her son?_ Rhaegar shook his head when Catelyn voiced the question. “They are both well, as far as we know. I am afraid that is the problem- we do not know. Lady Lysa insisted that she and her son accompany Lord Arryn’s body back to the Eyrie, to see it interred. I consented, with the understanding that she and Lord Robert would return before I did. However, your sister has…” Rhaegar grimaced as he held out the letter to Catelyn.

She opened it and scanned the writing, her eyes widening as she did. Sensing Ned’s impatience next to her, she explained what the note held. “She refuses to return to the capital, claiming that she cannot bear to be so far apart from her lord husband’s grave. As for Lord Robert, she declares that he will stay by her side until he is of age, and they will not be parted.”

“Which cannot be allowed, I am afraid.” Rhaegar looked at the two of them. “Robert Arryn was intended to be fostered with the crown in King’s Landing, per his father’s wishes. Allowing him to remain in the Eyrie under the regency of his mother is something that cannot be condoned, or else others will be encouraged to flout royal prerogatives.”

“The lords of the Vale would never support an incursion, even by the crown,” Ned pointed out, his brow furrowing as he thought. “They would rather revolt than allow it.”

“True, which is why I have sent a raven instructing my council not to resort to anything resembling force. Envoys and entreaties, but no soldiers.” The king frowned. “Still, the Vale, and the widow Arryn, must be made to understand the position they are placing the crown in. So, I have decided to name a royal agent to the problem, to journey to the Vale and sort the whole thing out before violence becomes necessary. One whose authority and relation to the throne will not allow for any dissension, unless they prefer treason.”

“But…” The pieces fell into place in Catelyn’s mind. “You mean to send Jon, don’t you?”

The king’s expression confirmed her suspicions. “You cannot send him! He is still too young, far too young! And even if he was not, he does not know the Vale, its lords or its lands. What is required-”

She cut herself short as the king raised his hand. “You are right. Not about his age, mind you. He must make a beginning, and I am confident that this is a task that he will accomplish. But he will need companions. Not just warriors, but diplomats, people who know the Vale better than Jon and how to deal with its lords and present regent best. So, along with Jon, I intend to name two others. One has already volunteered his services and is likely preparing to travel to the Vale even now. As for the other, well…”

Rhaegar paused, then looked directly at Catelyn. “In hard times, I have found that most people turn to family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three or four chapters until we depart Winterfell. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	23. The Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises are made, while others are broken.

** Rhaenys **

“He doesn’t seem as bad as all that.”

“We’ve known him for less than two days, and Daenerys is family, Tyene. Let’s wait to decide until we can do better than _seem_.”

Rhaenys kept her eyes on her book while she spoke. She had hoped that _the_ _Wonders Made by Man_ would take her away from the cold land she found herself in now, but it had failed to do so. All it had done was taunt her with visions of the walls of Qarth and the Titan of Braavos.

In fairness, Winterfell was like nothing she had seen before. Rhaenys had seen many great castles, and while it was nothing like the immensity of Casterly Rock or the wonder of the Red Keep, Winterfell _felt_ different- as though it had stood longer than anyone could guess and would stay standing for the same. The lands were cold, yes, but far from inhospitable, and the smallfolk had an honesty and earnestness to them that stood apart from their counterparts in the south.

_If only the same could be said of their lords._

White Harbor had been more like King’s Landing then she had expected. Lord Manderly had reminded Rhaenys of Mace Tyrell, considering his girth and his emphasis on propriety and virtue. The man was tiresome, but he and his court had held no surprises.

Winterfell, on the other hand, felt like a world apart. Apart from the Starks, several of their bannermen had gathered to see Rhaenys’ father, and few had demonstrated any warmth towards him.

They acted far more kindly towards her and Daenerys, though. If it was possible, they had come across as more condescending than most lords south of the Neck. _I know it is better to be underestimated than the other way around. But still…_

While Rhaenys fumed, Tyene looked at her with a curious expression. “I do hope that fire your stoking isn’t for me. Or our hosts, for that matter. It wouldn’t do much good to roast anyone, at least not right now.”

Rhaenys frowned. “Do not say such things, Tyene. Courtesy is well and good, but Lord Stark strikes me as a man who prefers honesty to honeyed words.”

That made him an exception to the rule. Rhaenys had not known whether her open speech about the godswood and her homesickness would do her any favors, but both Lord Stark and his wife had seemed to appreciate it. _Truth can be disarming. That appears to be a wisdom that works on either side of the Neck._

Lord Stark had come across as cold when she had first met him. It was common knowledge that that was the northman’s way of treating everyone, but Rhaenys had suspected that his history with her father may be fueling it in part. So far, Rhaenys suspected it was so, though she had yet to be proven right or wrong.

“Well, at least the lady was kind enough to send someone to collect her children. If your aunt was left alone with those children for too long, I daresay those wolves might eat her.”

“The ones with fur or without?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Rhae.”

She had to laugh at that. “They have strange pets, that does not make them skinchangers. Besides, it seems to me that their lady mother might skin them if such a thing happened.”

Rhaenys had been pleasantly surprised by Lord Stark’s wife. Lady Catelyn had been the soul of courtesy, and while her attempts to ingratiate herself with Rhaenys and Daenerys were a tad clumsy, they were not unexpected. In truth, Rhaenys found Lady Stark far more knowledgeable and engaging then most ladies she knew. It made her wonder if the North had done that to her, or if the Tully woman had always been that way. _Perhaps it was both._

As for the Stark children, Rhaenys had not payed most of them much mind. The only one she had given any attention to was the one who had given her cause to come north. _The one Father intends to give Dany to._

Robb Stark had his mother’s looks, but Rhaenys had been far more concerned with his manner and mind than his appearance. So far as she could tell, the Stark heir was still green but honest, and stubborn when he had cause. The youth was clearly enamored with Daenerys, who had handled the attention well enough. Still, Rhaenys had done her best to manage the two, and found support both from her and her aunt’s attendants, as well as the elder of Stark’s daughters.

 _A beauty, that one, far too much so to languish in the North._ Rhaenys was considering whether to invite Sansa to attend her in the capital. The younger woman was clearly taken with the idea of journeying south and having her would help to manage any risk of the North turning against the Iron Throne.

Rhaenys was still considering such matters when the door opened. Ser Arys didn’t announce Nym as she entered- the Dornishwoman was always welcome to enter, not that the Kingsguard would refuse her if she wasn’t. _A fine name and sword arm are well and good, but the man is little better than a boy, truth be told._

Arianne had once boasted that it would take her no more than a month to break his vows with her. Rhaenys had forbidden any attempt at such, however, leaving her cousin disappointed.

“Rhaenys.” Nym walked over and sat across from her and Tyene. “A servant finally brought me something worthwhile.”

“Which one, and for how much?” Tyene asked, her innocent expression belying the words her mouth uttered.

“One of the maids, and for a purse of silvers.”

“What did she give you?” asked Rhaenys, sitting up. “You know better than to bring me little better than gossip.”

“I’m afraid gossip is what I bring you, along with some whispers and ideas to back it up.”

Nymeria settled into her chair as she began to speak in detail. “The woman was in one of the halls when your father ended his meeting with Lord Stark and his wife. On their way out, she managed to catch a few words, some of which were ‘Lysa’ and ‘Eyrie’.”

Tyene looked bored. “So, the king spoke to the widow Arryn’s sister about the Vale? You value silver too little, sister. I could have told you that for free.”

Nym opened her mouth to retort when Rhaenys intervened. “Enough, Tyene. Nym, were there any details?”

“Apparently, the lord and lady were discussing matters of travel-horses and coin, ships and the like.” Nymeria gave her sister a look. “I think the king had more than a simple conversation in mind.”

 _Yes, that would make sense._ “Asking Lysa Arryn’s sister to help would make sense. Her family would be less threatening then an army.”

Tyene laughed. “That would depend on the family, and the army. The Vale is strong, in lands and men. Besides, I never had the impression that there was much goodwill between Lysa and her older sister. They may not be as close as His Grace believes.”

Rhaenys had to concede that. She had spent as little time with the Hand’s wife as she could manage, but that had still been far too much. Lysa Arryn had always struck her as vain, overbearing, and more than a little foolish. If Catelyn Stark was as different as she seemed to be, then it was hard to imagine two such women getting along.

Rhaenys decided to change subjects. “And what of the Stark’s eldest? Was there anything worth learning there?”

Nymeria shook her head. “I have spoken to least a dozen members of the household about the boy. Either they have all been told to whisper the same lies or they speak true.”

“That told us absolutely nothing,” Tyene pointed out.

“A little patience, sister,” Nym replied, looking annoyed. “That is because there seems little to tell. They all say the lad is good on a horse, and with a lance as well. He does not read much, despite his parent’s urging. He is more inclined to tasking his body than his mind.”

The Dornishwoman shrugged. “Other than that, nothing special. More honest than not, and a sense of honor that only a northman could possess. And lastly, the Stark lad is _fiercely_ protective of his own. They all are, apparently, parents and children alike.”

Nymeria paused before looking at Rhaenys. “That includes Jon, Rhae.”

 _How did I know she’d find a way to mention him?_ “Let’s focus on my aunt’s betrothed-to-be, Nym. The rest can wait.”

Her friend didn’t push, but Rhaenys knew the subject wasn’t done with. The question was when she’d bring it up again, not if.

Whether or not she knew it, the Dornishwoman had done much to put Rhaenys at ease. Her initial suspicions aside, the princess doubted that the people Nymeria had talked to were lying. So many people saying the same thing attested to truth, not conspiracy, and if there was one lord in the Seven Kingdoms who did not conspire, then it would be Eddard Stark.

The prospect of Daenerys’ betrothal had been what drove Rhaenys to join her and her father on their journey to Winterfell. While she had told the king that she had wanted to accompany Dany so that she could prepare her aunt for being hosted by a great lord, Rhaenys’ primary urge had been to learn what she could of her aunt’s prospective match. She did not think her father would betroth any member of their family to someone undeserving, but it was better to be sure.

From what she could tell, her concerns had been unfounded. Robb Stark did not seem very impressive, but he had also given her no cause for concern, either for Daenerys’ care or loyalty to the throne.

_Remember what Oberyn said. Better to be suspicious without cause than trusting without the same._

Rhaenys had used that wisdom with many people. Of late, she had even used it to understand her father’s actions.

Rhaenys had been furious when she had learned of her father’s plan to bind House Stark to the crown using Daenerys. Once her outrage had faded though, she had seen the sense of it, though grudgingly.

Daenerys was a princess of the royal family- a betrothal to bind one house or another to House Targaryen was always going to be her fate, whatever Rhaenys’ father and mother said. Given the various matches being considered for Aegon and Viserys, there was wisdom in offering House Stark a royal match of their own.

 Rhaenys had spoken with Arianne about the subject just before she and her father had departed the capital. Her cousin had dismissed her concerns with a shrug.

“The Starks are known for many things, abusing women isn’t one of them,” Ari had pointed out. “Besides, if they are bound to the Iron Throne through Daenerys, that gives them less reason to offer support to your…to your father’s youngest child.”

She had not considered that at all, but it had become clear after that. Her father still cared for the lesser son of House Targaryen but was wary enough to keep him from forging a bond with one of the Great Houses. And if the bastard was foolish enough to speak against it, he would both disappoint the king and give the Starks reason to distrust him.

A knock came from the door. Rhaenys turned as Ser Arys opened it to let a girl walk in.

 _This one’s almost as pretty as the Stark’s older daughter._ Hazel eyes glanced at Nym and Tyene before they came to Rhaenys.

The girl dropped into a deep curtsy. “Princess.”

“Rise.” Rhaenys looked at her curiously as she did. “That accent isn’t from Winterfell. Where did you come from?”

“Oh, Lannisport, princess,” the girl said quickly, her eyes dropping as she spoke, “by way of Harlaw.”

“Harlaw? Why would-” Rhaenys stopped herself as she realized who she was speaking to. “You must be Rosey, then.”

“Yes, princess.” The younger woman curtsied again, then glanced at Rhaenys, her expression a mix of curiosity and worry. “If I may ask, how do you know my name?”

Rhaenys paused as she considered her answer. _Well, I suppose there’s no harm in the truth._

“My brother, Prince Aegon told me of you. He and our younger brother write often, you see. There is little they do not share.” _Despite all my warnings not to do so._

The girl’s face brightened at that. “Oh, is that so? I am honored to know that, princess.”

Rhaenys noted the look in Rosey’s eye as she spoke. _Is that for Jon? It must be, she’s never met Aegon._

For all the things he and Jon shared, why the latter had chosen to bring two common children with him to Winterfell was one thing Rhaenys still did not know. She had asked Aegon several times and her father once, but they had each said that the tale was Jon’s to tell, not theirs.

“Is there something you need, my lady?” Tyene asked sweetly, her eyes looking Rosey up and down. “Oh, and may I call you Rosey?”

“I actually prefer Rose, my lady.”

“Very well then. And…?”

“Oh, yes.” Rose motioned towards the door. “The feast is about to start. Lord Eddard bid me come here and remind you.”

She had not needed reminding, but Rhaenys did not say so. Irritated though she was, she knew this girl was not a fair target for her ire.

“Also,” she went on, “your escorts are waiting to see you and Princess Daenerys to the Great Hall.”

“Escorts?” Now Rhaenys let her irritation show. “How…kind of Lord Stark. Well then, please go and tell them we shall soon be there.”

“At once, princess.” Rose curtsied a final time before turning and walking from the chamber.

As soon as she was gone, Nymeria began speaking. “Does Stark really think that you and Daenerys require aid to walk down a hallway?”

“Oh, calm yourself, Nym.” Tyene smiled. “It’s a common practice, after all. Rhaenys, how many times have you had some lordling link his arm with yours and walk you to the king’s table?”

“More often than I care to remember.” Rhaenys frowned. “I never had to do it in King’s Landing, but whenever Father and I visited a lord’s holdings there would be at least one feast where I had to put up with such.”

“Then one more won’t do anyone any harm. Other then your escort’s toes, that is.”

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. Nymeria and Tyene joined her, though it faded after a few moments.

Rhaenys stood. “Well, I suppose we should put on our finest. I think the black and tan dress will do for tonight, it complements my coloring best.”

Nym and Tyene looked at each other before looking back at her. “And you are telling us this…why?”

Rhaenys smirked at them. “You are my handmaidens, after all. Go and get it for me.”

Tyene laughed as she turned and walked to the closet just across from Rhaenys’ bed. She opened the door and, after a moment’s pause, fished out the dress and tossed it onto the bed.

Nymeria gave Rhaenys a look. “I suppose you’ll want us to brush your hair and feed you berries while we do, right?”

“Don’t forget the feet washing.”

Her cousin looked horrified. “No! That is where my duties end. Wash your own feet!”

Rhaenys laughed as she changed. She rarely saw any of her cousins discomfited; seeing one of them flustered was a treat.

After she finished, Rhaenys shook out her hair. She turned and looked at the Sand Snakes. “How do I look?”

“Like a princess,” Nym replied, while Tyene nodded agreement.

“Good. Now then, let’s see who our gallant host has chosen to escort us.”

_Though if I am right, there are only two who can._

When they reached the chamber just before the courtyard, Rhaenys wasn’t surprised to see Daenerys already standing there. Her aunt was always quick to prepare for such things- she enjoyed feasts and the like, much more than Rhaenys did. She didn’t begrudge Dany’s fondness. There were worse things to enjoy, after all. Behind her was her silver-haired attendant, a younger daughter of House Velaryon, if Rhaenys recalled correctly.

And sure enough, the two youths waiting with Daenerys were exactly who Rhaenys expected. Standing next to her aunt was Robb Stark, who dropped into a bow as Rhaenys came into his line of sight. Next to him, her brother nodded, a polite smile on his face as he looked at her and the two women following just behind.

“Sister. Lady Nymeria, Lady Tyene,” Jon added, bowing his head as the two Dornishwomen curtsied. “Father is waiting. Shall we?”

The dark-haired youth turned to the side and offered his arm. Rhaenys looked at him for a moment before taking it, glancing backwards as Daenerys did the same with Robb. After pausing to look back as well, Jon began to walk forward, his paces shortened so Rhaenys would not have to rush.

She appreciated the courtesy, though Rhaenys knew there was no warmth in it.

Rhaenys had sensed that nothing had changed when they had seen each other during the royal party’s arrival. The cool expression and challenging eyes were obvious enough, even if his courtesies were perfect. And when their father had left with Jon to seek out the latter’s mother, the glance he had given her reminded her of the coldness that she had seen in the king, rare though it was.

The memory of her father seeking out the woman who had lured him away from King’s Landing and started a war still made her face flush. _It’s been fifteen years, for the Mother’s sake. How can she still have power over him?_

“Rhaenys.” She started as her brother spoke. She turned to see him looking at her, curiosity on his face.

“Please say that again, I was somewhere else.” It was hard not to let her anger show, but she did not allow it to. _Smile at your foes, make them think you safe._

“I asked if you saw Aegon. Before you left the capital, that is.”

“Yes, he arrived just a few days before we left.” Rhaenys glanced at Jon quickly before looking ahead. “Father commanded he begin attending small council meetings, to better learn the workings of the realm’s governance.”

“Really? That is good to hear.” He sounded surprised and pleased all at once.

 _He better not expect me to start gushing about my younger brother._ “How have you found Winterfell, if I may ask?”

Her brother shrugged. “Lord Stark and his family have been very kind to me. I thank the gods every day that Father chose my uncle to foster me.”

_That makes two of us._

They didn’t speak any further as they made their way across the courtyard. Behind them, Rhaenys could hear Daenerys giggled as Stark spoke to her. _He makes her laugh. That is a good sign._

They reached the Great Hall shortly thereafter. They paused briefly at the doorway, then entered.

The tables had all been pulled to the side, save for the high table, where the lord’s dais was waiting. Seated at its center was her father, dressed in all the finery his station demanded. Seated a space to his right was the Lord of Winterfell, while is male kin made up the rest of the table on that side. From one seat to the king’s left sat Daenerys, followed by Lady Stark and her daughters, as well as the ladies and companions of them and of the others who had come to Winterfell for this gathering.

Rhaenys caught movement under the tables. She knew that castle dogs and curs often made their way into feasts to fight over the scraps that fell from the meals. But they were rarely allowed at the high table. Her suspicion was quickly confirmed as from near the king’s feet a small white head poked out, the pup’s red eyes finding its master across the hall.

In truth, Rhaenys was not sure what to make of the direwolf pups. They seemed harmless enough, but they were still small, and she knew much would depend on how their masters raised them. _And a bad master can make for a terrible beast, dog or direwolf._

Rhaenys and Jon walked down the hall, every eye in the Hall following them as they did. Rhaenys wasn’t much bothered by it- she had become used to being stared at, for better or worse.

Once they reached the high table, they parted arms. Jon turned and bowed while Rhaenys curtsied, then they both turned and walked around the table, each taking the seat at their father’s side.

Rhaenys inwardly seethed that her brother be given pride of place. _Do not become used to it. That is Aegon’s proper place, not yours._

But the anger dissipated quickly. Today, her father had finally acted to protect Rhaenys and Aegon from all else, even their younger brother. She would not let a table seat ruin that for her.

As she sat, Rhaenys noticed that no food had been set out yet. All there was were several flagons, holding an assortment of wine, water, and mead. She poured herself a glass of the first before pouring water for Daenerys. Her aunt scowled at her, but Rhaenys just smirked in response.

Across the hall, men and women were following suit. None drank though, as the king stood and raised a hand. The whispers that were echoing in the hall faded as her father spoke.

“My lords, my ladies,” the king began, “and people of Winterfell, I thank you for the welcome that you have given me and my kin. Those who think the North a cold land have clearly never experienced the hospitality of its people, whose hearts and manners stand apart from any others in the Seven Kingdoms.”

A scattering of applause began but quickly faded as her father continued. “That is not to ignore the past. All here know that the Iron Throne and Winterfell have often been at odds, both in old times and the present. And only a fool would claim that House Targaryen deserved no blame for those quarrels.”

“However,” the king noted, “just because something once was does not meant that it must be so, or always shall be. Where once there was discord, now I dare to say that there is harmony, even friendship between the direwolf and the dragon.”

 _This is going well._ As Rhaenys scanned the faces of the people below, their expressions told her much. There was little enthusiasm to be found, but little anger either. What seemed to be prevailing above the all else was a grudging acceptance, with an almost rueful quality to it. Rhaenys took heart from that- she knew this reluctant obedience was more honest and useful than the false sycophantic obedience the crown received so often.

_But that will change when they learn of what Father is offering their lord._

Sure enough, the king was getting to that. “As I traveled to Winterfell, a question I constantly pondered was how to demonstrate to the North, to the _realm_ , that House Stark and House Targaryen stand together once more. And finally, I decided that there was only one way to honor your lord and his family as they deserve.”

“So, after speaking with Lord Eddard, he and I have decided to bind our houses not only with the bonds of vassalage, but those of marriage as well.”

Her father raised his goblet high, his face bright, his eyes earnest as he did.

“So let us drink, to the betrothal of my son, the Prince Jon, of House Targaryen, to the eldest daughter of House Stark, the Lady Sansa!”

For a moment there was silence, all quiet as the king’s words echoed through the hall.

And then Benjen Stark roared to life. “You lot claim to be wolves, don’t you? Then howl!!”

That was all it took. Noise erupted as cheers and whistles and yes, _howls_ from both man and beast rang through the hall. The grudging air was gone- in its place was enthusiasm, the coldness burned away by the passionate response to the honor their king had just bestowed on House Stark.

All the while, the only thing Rhaenys felt was shock.

_What? No, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be Dany, her and Robb Stark…_

“Rhaenys? Rhaenys?!” She spun her head as the voice repeated her name. Daenerys was looking at her, a happy smile on her face as she did. “This is wonderful? Do you think Sansa will come live in King’s Landing?”

Rhaenys didn’t respond. Events were still unfolding around her. There were calls for wine, for food, for music. The last was taken up, a chorus rising to demand dancing and singing.

“Dany…I…I…” She didn’t have any words. Too much was happening, too quickly. She needed to…she needed to go, to move, to-

Rhaenys stood, watching as her cousins followed suit just behind her. “Excuse me, Daenerys, Lady Catelyn.”

Dany just looked confused while Lady Stark nodded, bowing her head as Rhaenys turned away. She did not say anything to her father, did not pay him any mind, even to see if _he_ was paying _her_ any mind.

She stepped back from the table, making sure not to draw any attention to herself. That was easier than it normally was- all the hall’s attention was fixed on the daughter who had just been pledged to a prince, as well as that prince himself.

Rhaenys turned to look at the latter, expecting to see triumph on his face. But Jon’s expression wasn’t triumphant- it was shocked, too much so for it to be feigned. _So, he did not know? This wasn’t him?_

But his expression shifted as she watched. The shock left and in its place was an acceptance, accompanied by a warmth that Rhaenys didn’t know that Jon could possess. She watched as he turned to send a smile to his newly betrothed, who smiled back with a warmth that matched his.

And when their gazes met, all Rhaenys felt was cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	24. The Fair Maids of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After one hell of a night, a princess-to-be appraises her new circumstances.

** Sansa **

“My lady? My lady, please, it’s past time you were up.”

Sansa groaned into her pillow. “Rose, that’s enough. I feel ill, my head is pounding.”

“That isn’t an illness, it’s the wine Robb snuck you and the princess last night. Honestly, I don’t know what that clod was thinking.” Rose followed up by giving Sansa a hard push, moving her from on her side onto her back. Sansa tried to ignore it, but then she felt something start to sniff at her face. Sansa growled before opening her eyes.

The darkness faded slowly, seeming to melt as Sansa blinked up at the ceiling. In its place she found Lady staring at her, the pup’s nose twitching as she started to lick Sansa’s cheek.

“Alright, alright, I’m awake.” Sansa sighed as she pushed Lady away from her face. She yawned before sitting up and shook her head once she was upright. Her head screamed in protest at the action, making Sansa grimace as she pressed her hands against its sides The pressure relieved the pain just a little.

She blinked at the window. The sunlight was shining in, casting light throughout her chambers. It hurt her eyes, forcing her to close them. Sansa knew she had overslept; she just couldn’t tell how much she had done so. She hoped that her mother had not noticed yet. _Many may rise late today, given the feast last-_

Sansa gasped as the memories of the night before came crashing back. She swung her head to look at Rose, ignoring the pain as she asked, “What happened during the feast last night, Rose?”

Rose smirked at Sansa as she laid out a dress on the table near the bed. “Do you mean to tell me you forgot? I didn’t think you drank that much.”

“No! I just...I thought I might have been dreaming,” Sansa whispered.

Her friend laughed. “It was no dream, Sansa.”

The pain in Sansa’s head vanished as her mind returned her to that moment- the one where the king had raised his glass and announced the decision to wed Sansa and Jon, to bind the dragon and direwolf together. Everything afterward was a blur; she did recall Robb passing her his glass, her brother holding a finger to his lips as he did so. _That was after the food was done, when the dancing began…_

Sansa’s hand came to her mouth as she remembered her dance. Not the one with her father or brothers or any of the other men who she had allowed to share the floor with her; no, _her_ dance, the one that she and Jon had shared at the beginning of the music. _They played Jenny’s song, even though it was a celebration._

Rose shrugged when Sansa said so aloud. “I always liked that song. So do you, if I remember right.”

“It’s not that I dislike it, I just-” Sansa paused as she scanned the room once more. “Where’s Jeyne? Or Beth? Are they awake already?”

“Your lord father wanted someone to show the princess Rhaenys to the hot springs. Jeyne drew the short straw. Beth is getting a late breakfast.” Rose turned and walked to the door. “By the way, the king’s sister wanted to know when you woke up. She wants to talk.”

“Daenerys? Is she still in her chambers?”

“I think she went to the sept, though I don’t know if she’s still there.”

“Go and see if she is, please.” Rose nodded and left her chambers and Sansa stretched before slowly rising from her bed. Lady barked as she did, stirred to action by Sansa and Rose’s movement. The ache in Sansa’s head had returned, but the pain did not seem as great as it had before. She sighed before shrugging off her gown and changing into the dress that her friend had left for her.

Sansa smiled to herself as she examined herself in a mirror. Her hair still needed to be brushed, but whatever she had drunk last night had not affected her appearance so far as she could tell. _When I find Robb, he is going to have much to answer for._

A knock came from the door, making Lady bark at it. Before Sansa could answer, it opened and her younger sister came through, a smug grin on her face. “It’s nice to see you up. How is the new princess?”

“I am _not_ a princess,” Sansa protested as Arya laughed, “the king and Father agreed to a betrothal, that’s all.”

“That’s all? Is that really what you are going to tell people?” Arya walked over and peered at Sansa’s face, ignoring Lady as the pup sniffed at her dress. “You might want to practice. I’m your sister and I don’t believe you. If you can’t fool me, you won’t fool anyone else.”

_Like she’s one to talk._ Arya acted as if she had a subtle streak in her, but she and Sansa both knew that she had little patience for such things. “Well, do you have any advice to give me?”

“Yes, try not to look like you’re melting whenever someone says Jon’s name.”

“Arya!”

“What? You do. Jon must be the only one who hasn’t noticed, and I’m pretty sure that even he is catching on.”

Sansa blush darkened, if that was possible. She knew that her affection for Jon was no secret but being reminded of how open the secret was had embarrassed her.

“Well, I will be sure to do that,” Sansa said shortly. “Mother has always said that courtesy is a lady’s armor. So, courtesy will serve as mine.”

“And you expect to learn more about that in Winterfell?” Arya laughed again, but stopped when Sansa answered, “I expect to learn wherever I can. This isn’t a game anymore, Arya. This betrothal will mean enemies, for me and our family. Jon’s a prince; how many people do you think wish to use him to get closer to the crown? When the rest of the Seven Kingdoms learns of this, half the lords will be jealous and complain, the other half will do the same _and_ plot. And _we_ will be a part of those plots.”

Arya’s humor was gone. In its place was a look of uncertainty, but also one of defiance. “Let them. The North is strong, and no southern army has ever managed to take Winterfell. We’d just throw them back.”

“Not all of us will _be_ in Winterfell, Arya. Jon is the king’s son, and he’ll have to return south very soon. Eventually, I will have to join him there. King’s Landing and the king’s court are beautiful, but they are dangerous as well. The same as Winterfell.”

Arya looked skeptical. “Aren’t you the one who is always asking Jon about King’s Landing or Casterly Rock? I thought you wanted to go south, to see the rest of the realm.”

“I do. But just because I want to go somewhere does not mean ignoring the things that make those places dangerous. If I wanted to go to Dorne, but did not study the things in Dorne that could kill me, you’d think I was being stupid, right?”

“Yes. Not that it would be a shock.” Arya’s smirk remained even after Sansa swatted at her shoulder.

_This is just like her- no fear, regardless of circumstance or convention._ Sansa admired that most of the time- her sister’s natural courage had taught her much, and endeared Arya to most who met her. Still, there was a fine line between courage and foolhardiness, and the line was even finer when dealing with intrigue.

Their mother knew that as well as anyone Sansa knew. During the celebration last night, she had pulled Sansa aside to speak to her of what was to come. While she had begun by congratulating her and reminding her of her and Jon’s affections and the support of their family, Mother had also warned her of what the engagement would mean. “Jon is still a prince, no matter his origins, and there will be many who will envy your new position. His Grace does what he can, but no man can keep a court entirely free of schemes. You must always be on your guard, or else bad things could happen.”

In a night marked by celebration and good cheer, her mother’s warning stood out, making Sansa remember it all the better. The wine she had drunk had not been enough to wipe that memory away.

_Speaking of which…_ “Did anyone give you something to eat or drink you shouldn’t have?”

“You mean did Robb give me some wine too?” Arya sighed. “No, Father threw me out before he could.” She sounded disappointed, though Sansa could not tell if that was because of the missed wine or being forced to leave the feast.

“Why did Father throw you out?” Sansa asked, curious.

“One of the Sand Snakes called Jon a Snow, so I threw a slice of ham at her. It got grease all over her dress.” Arya shrugged at Sansa’s shocked expression. “Father saw me do it and sent me to bed.”

“Arya, you should not call them-”

“What? Sands? They are though, even they say it. And they both act like snakes, especially the pale one. Even the princess acts cold, like she’s one of them.” Arya’s eyes flashed as she spoke. At their feet, Lady whined, as if she could sense the change in Arya and Sansa’s mood.

“The ‘pale one’ is Lady Tyene, and you should not have thrown anything at her, let alone ham. Her sister is Nymeria, same as your pup.” Sansa shook her head. “Tyene was the one who spoke ill of Jon, wasn’t she?”

Arya nodded. Sansa sighed before turning and sitting before her mirror. She picked up one of the brushes and began stroking her hair, willing her hand to remain steady as she contemplated her sisters’ words. _Jon always spoke well of the Red Viper, and his daughter Nym. But what does it mean if she would listen to such talk?_

Sansa looked at Arya. “Well, it’s done. Try not to throw anything else at people who travel with the king.”

Her sister pouted but nodded reluctantly. Sansa glanced at her feet, and then around the room. “I don’t see Nymeria here. Is she back in your chambers?”

Arya shook her head. “She was still going after the scraps when I left. I think Robb or Bran took her for the night.”

“Well, I suggest you go and make sure of that. Or else she may end up somewhere she shouldn’t.” Sansa doubted anything would happen to the pup, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And concern for her pup was one of the few things that could make Arya drop her confident demeanor and act cautiously.

Sure enough, Sansa’s sister bit her lip before turning and leaving her chambers. Lady whined as she left, causing Sansa to put down her brush so that she could stroke the pup’s ears.

After a few minutes, Sansa was finished preparing her hair and dress. She glanced over herself in the mirror one last time and, after satisfying her concerns, walked to the door with Lady following at her heels. She intended to go after Rose and see if she had managed to track down Daenerys or not.

Jon’s aunt had not been what Sansa had expected. The princess had struck her and the rest of House Stark with her beauty. And when this scion of Old Valyria had smiled at Jon, who had returned the expression, Sansa could not suppress the fear that her prince had eyes for another. Her unease had only grown after Jon and the king had departed for the crypts, as Daenerys spoke with Sansa’s parents with perfect courtesy and a warm expression.

_Mother has said looks can be deceiving, but Daenerys seemed perfect._

That had changed as Sansa and her companions had prepared to sleep that evening. They had almost settled in when Arya had come into the room from the hallway. She often did so; Arya’s rooms were next to Sansa’s, after all, and they liked to speak in private. But this time, she had not come alone. Following her into Sansa’s chambers was Daenerys, with Lady Nymeria just behind her.

“Lady Sansa,” the princess had begun, smiling at her before nodding at her companions, who all rushed to stand and curtsy to the Targaryen. “Lady Arya said you wouldn’t be asleep yet. It seems we caught you just in time.”

“Princess Daenerys,” Sansa had said cautiously, “what-”

“Please, my friends call me Dany.” The girl had waved a hand. “Your sister walked into my chambers and said that we should talk. So here we are.”

“What?! ARYA!!”

Sansa’s horror had been unfounded; Daenerys seemed genuinely interested in talking with the daughters of House Stark. And as she had settled in and begun speaking with Arya and Sansa about their experiences in Winterfell and her own in King’s Landing, Sansa had found herself being charmed by the princess. Daenerys was kind, but she seemed a little naïve, and the way she was openly dismissive of some people in court suggested that the Targaryen was not as impressive as she looked. Sansa was also reassured by the younger girl’s way of speaking about Jon, which struck Sansa more as friendly than anything else.

Sansa had decided then and there to try and befriend Daenerys. Learning about court would be much easier if she could do so from someone who had been raised in it. Sansa also wanted to do the same with Jon’s sister. Rhaenys had acted as charming and graceful as anyone she had ever met, but Jon’s coolness toward her made Sansa wonder if that was a good idea. 

Sansa stepped into the hallway and glanced about her. Finding the place deserted, she turned and began walking towards the Great Hall, With Lady trotting after her. Sansa wondered whether she would have to go all the way to the sept to find Daenerys and Rose. _Please, let them be somewhere along the way._

When she got to the Great Hall, Sansa found some royal servants and a few guardsmen, but no one that she knew well was there. Sighing, she turned and walked towards the door, squinting a little as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight shining from outside. When she got there, she was surprised to find that the ground was white, as if salt had been sprinkled across it.

_So, the snow did follow the king to Winterfell._ Sansa smiled as she looked up where, sure enough, snowflakes were falling from the clouds scattered around the sun. The air was cold, but the sunlight made it feel much warmer than it truly was. Lady stepped out and sniffed at the ground, suspicious of the unfamiliar scent. Sansa hoped it would remain for a while. _Or else I’ve chosen the wrong clothing for today._

She turned to walk towards the sept. Fortunately, it was not far from the Great Hall’s entrance- Sansa’s father had wanted to spare her mother a long journey through Winterfell to pray. That line of thinking was again working to Winterfell’s advantage with the royal party, or at least with the royal family and Kingsguard. The rest of the visitors remained in the guesthouse, which was closer to the outer parts of Winterfell than the Great Keep and Great Hall.

As she came to the entrance, Sansa thought she heard singing coming from within the sept. At first, she assumed that whoever was inside was singing a hymn, but as she entered, she realized that it was “the Dornishman’s Wife”. _Who is playing a song like that in a sept, of all places?_

Inside the sept, Sansa found Lady Nymeria and Lady Tyene sitting on one of the benches provided for worshippers. Both were regarding the source of the music, a man leaning against the wall next to the Mother’s statue. He had a common look, with brown hair streaked with gray and laugh lines near his mouth. His voice was pleasing enough, though Sansa did not think it impressive either. He was smiling as he sang, brown eyes sparkling as he looked at the two Sand Snakes. His hands grasped a lute, the notes lively as he sang,

_“…the Dornishman’s taken my life, but what does it matter, for all men must die, and I’ve tasted the-”_

Lady whined from behind Sansa. The singer turned his head to find the source of the noise and, finding Sansa, stopped playing, his fingers pausing along the lute in his hands. “Oh, good morning. Are you here to pray?”

“Not at the moment.” Sansa smiled at him and the two Dornishwomen in apology. “I am sorry, it seems I interrupted your playing, ser…?”

“I am no ser, my lady. Just Abel, late of the White Knife.” Abel gave a graceful bow. “Nor is there any need for apology. The song was near enough done, and I suspect these lovely young women have heard it before.”

“Not quite, Abel.” Nymeria smiled at the singer. “I’ve met many a man who knew that song, but you are the first of them to ever sing it in a sept, of all places. While sober, that is.”

Abel laughed. “I know many more than the one, my lady. If I did not, I doubt His Grace would have allowed me to join you on the way to Winterfell. It is a pity that we did not hear him play; I had hoped to learn if the king was as good as the tales said.”

“Better even than that, I assure you.” Tyene turned and looked at Sansa. “If not for prayer, then why are you here, Lady Sansa?”

“I was looking for Princess Daenerys,” Sansa explained, “There were a few matters I had hoped to speak with her about.”

“Well, she is not, I fear.” Abel smiled at her. “Perhaps if I sing the right tune, the princess might be drawn to us. I know men whose song draws eagles and other beasts to their side. Perhaps it is the same with dragons.” The man plucked a few chords of what sounded like the “Fair Maids of Summer” for emphasis.

The Sand Snakes laughed. Sansa did not, instead looking at Abel carefully. _First a bawdy song in a sept, now he makes jest of the royal family. This man is bold, or foolish._

“My lady?” Sansa turned to find Rose in the sept’s entrance, a puzzled expression on her face as she took in the scene. After a moment, the young woman looked back at Sansa. “Princess Daenerys is in the godswood with Robb and Bran. Your little brother’s climbing up one of the trees.”

“What? Oh, gods help me.” Sansa sighed before turning back to the others in the sept. “I must leave and put a stop to this nonsense. My lord father will be displeased if he hears of this.”

“Of course, my lady.” Abel’s expression became sad. “It is a pity that you must go. I think you may have enjoyed the song I had hoped for you to hear.” The man sighed before looking at Tyene and Nymeria. “I suppose you fair ladies must endure my music a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

“It is no trouble, man. There has been little enough entertainment since we arrived, I could use a few more songs.” Nymeria turned and curtsied at Sansa, Tyene slowly doing the same behind her. Sansa returned the gesture, then turned and left the sept, Rose following her as she did so. As she did, the man’s lute began to strum again, this time peeling out “The Winter Maid”.

There was still snow on the ground, but it was no longer falling from above. _A shame, that._ As they left the sept and headed for the godswood, Sansa shot a questioning look at Rose. “Was the princess encouraging Bran?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think he’s scaring her more than impressing her. Bran hasn’t seemed to notice, though, and Robb is too busy trying to do the same to get Bran to stop.”

“Not that he could anyway.” Bran and Robb had years between them, but the younger could still act as if he and Robb were supposed to be doing the same things. If Sansa’s older brother tried telling the younger to get out of the tree, Bran may well choose to keep climbing just to be defiant.

They had just reached the godswood’s entrance when Daenerys came from the other direction, her handmaid and Beth Cassel in tow. Lady barked at the princess, greeting the young woman as the pup picked up her pace to approach her.  But Daenerys paid the pup no heed, instead fixing on Sansa. Beth blushed when she saw Sansa, which puzzled her. But before she could address the castellan’s daughter, Daenerys spoke, her face flushed as she did.

“Oh, Sansa, Rose said you would probably come looking for us.” The princess smiled as she did. “I am sorry you had to. I did not expect to take so long in the godswood.”

“Think nothing of it, Daene- Dany,” Sansa corrected herself, noting the red hue in the Targaryen’s cheeks. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing of importance.” Dany flipped her hair back and glanced at Rose before turning back to Sansa. “If I asked you to tell whoever asked you about your older brother’s face that Bran had kicked him after coming out of the tree, would you say yes?”

“Did he?”

Behind her, Beth giggled. Daenerys shot the girl a look filled with warning, which sent the blood from Beth’s face in a flash. The princess looked at Sansa carefully. “He’ll say so, and so will I. Is that enough?”

_Oh, Robb, you poor fool._ Sansa knew that if her father or the king heard of this, House Stark’s heir would be in serious trouble. She grimaced before nodding. “Oh course, Dany. And please, let me say sorry for both my brother’s behavior.”

Dany waved a hand. “It’s fine. Bran did get out of the tree, by the way. Almost landed on his pup when he did. Now then, your friend here,” the princess paused to motion towards Beth, “says that you wanted to ask if there was anything I could help you learn about living in the capital, is that right?”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to glare at Beth, whose blood returned to her face as she glanced at her feet. After a moment, Sansa looked back at Dany and nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, I was thinking about it, and I had an idea.” The Targaryen’s amethyst eyes sparked as a sly expression came to her face. “Rhaenys and I spoke of court yesterday, and she said that a guide in the present is far better than words in the past. It has certainly helped us in King’s Landing. So, rather than offer you advice, I decided it would be better to offer you guidance.”

Daenerys smiled, the satisfaction on her face a contrast to the surprise on Sansa’s as she realized what the princess was about to offer. “Sansa, of House Stark, I would like to offer you a place in King’s Landing once I depart Winterfell, as one of my ladies-in-waiting.”

_Oh, gods old and new, thank you, thank you so much._ Sansa silently praised them as Daenerys continued, her excitement palpable. “Now, I know it is sudden, but my brother won’t refuse me, especially if you say you want to. Your father and mother will likely do the same, and if Jon is coming south as well-”

“Dany, Dany, please!” Sansa interrupted, raising a hand to emphasize her point. “You do not need to convince me! A princess is offering me a chance to come to court with her and learn about how life their works. I would be mad to refuse, and I do not intend to!”

“Oh, wonderful!” Daenerys’ smiled lit the trees around them. “I swear, Sansa you won’t regret this.”

“I know I won’t!” Sansa’s smile mirrored the Targaryen’s as her thoughts turned to another. “And I know that Jon won’t either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end of our extended trip to Winterfell. So saddle up, and get ready to ride.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


	25. The Board Is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lion licks his lips as the game begins.

** Tyrion **

“Bread, with two of those little fish, and a mug of dark beer to wash it down. And bacon, burned black.” Tyrion hardly noticed as the servant bowed and scurried off to fetch his breakfast. The dwarf rubbed his face with both hands, grimacing slightly as he felt the scruff on his unshaved jaw. The last few days had been taxing, and this was the last chance he would have to gain any real rest before he departed Winterfell.

_If I had known that Eddard Stark could offer such a warm welcome, I would have prepared for a longer visit._

Tyrion doubted that the northern lord had planned on doing so. Any fool could have seen the tension between Stark and the king when the latter had first arrived. Even with all the years that had passed since their last meeting, the gaps between the two had seemed to great to be bridged. Tyrion didn’t begrudge the man his resentment. _Lannister’s always pay their debts, but if any family could be expected to do the same, it’s the Starks._

The king’s younger son had said as much when they had spoken the night Rhaegar and his party had arrived. “I know that my uncle wants to try and move past the Rebellion, but I don’t think he ever truly can, Tyrion. I suppose I may have something to do with that.”

“I suppose, if your uncle is a man who prefers to blame those who bore the conflict to those who started it.” When Jon had begun to indignantly defend Lord Stark, Tyrion had pushed on impatiently. “Don’t, boy. I can abide many things, but self-pity is not one of them. I doubt that Ned Stark is such a lord, and I expect you think the same. If the man truly wants to mend fences, then he and your father will find a way. Kings and lords tend to, when it suits them.”

_That they did, in a manner that few expected. Least of all the prince, judging from his expression when the king announced it._

Jon had appeared thoughtful as Tyrion finished speaking. Then the prince had thanked him before moving on, asking what Tyrion knew of the Vale, particularly its lords and the widow Arryn. _The lad’s come far, I cannot deny that. He has some of his father and his uncle in him, though it’s too soon to say which is the greater influence._

When he had learned of the king’s decision to grant his younger son’s wardship to Winterfell, he had not been surprised. But while his father had focused on the prince that their own house was seeing to, Tyrion hadn’t been able to resist wondering after the fate of the boy who had stood against the Mountain himself.

 _And then he had the gall to write to me._ Tyrion smiled at the memory. The lad had sworn not to forget how he had helped Jon on Harlaw, but the dwarf had known better than to expect an eight-year old to hold to that kind of promise. And yet one of the first things the boy had written was thanks, right before asking after Tyrion’s health.

Tywin Lannister rarely showed any true emotion, but Tyrion had sensed his confusion at learning that the king’s son wished to hear from the heir of Casterly Rock. It had only lasted for a few hours, though, before Tywin had returned the letter to Tyrion and told him to respond.

“By all means, write to this…prince and see if there is anything to be gained.” Tywin Lannister had seemed dismissive, but the spark in his eye was too bright to be ignored. “If nothing else, we may gain some knowledge of House Stark, its strengths and weaknesses. And if we are fortunate, our house may be able to count on more than just the king’s brother to work with.”

 _If only Father knew how much the lad seemed to trust me._ Tyrion had always downplayed the knowledge that he and Jon shared, and why they shared it. He knew better than to trust his father with _all_ that he knew, especially considering the members of House Lannister that had fewer qualms than Tywin and his heir.

_And less than half as much wisdom._

A small cough announced the arrival of his breakfast. He sighed as the smell of the bacon hit his nostrils, his mouth watering at the memory and anticipation of the cooked meat’s flavor. Before he tore into it, he sipped the mead, nodding to himself as the rich taste touched his tongue. _The North may have no special claim to wine, but I have yet to find any mead better than the ones from above the Neck._

Tyrion was just about to bite into his toast when the sounds of arguing reached his ears. He turned his head to the side and found the door where the noise was coming from. After a few moments it opened to reveal the second son and daughter of House Stark, who remained focused on each other while they walked in, their two wolf pups nipping at their heels.

“Even Rickon managed to think of something, Bran! Why can’t you-”

“Shaggydog’s no proper name and you know it! Besides, Ser Barristan said that a proper name will describe his strength and his nobility, Arya, and-”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Maybe you’d have thought of a name by now if you weren’t so busy pestering Jon’s knight.” Before her younger brother could get farther than a gasp of indignation, Arya spotted Tyrion. “Good morning, my lord!”

The girl walked up and sat across from him, a friendly look on her face. While Tyrion would expect most children her age to avoid his gaze or stare curiously, Arya acted as if she saw people like him all the time. Her direwolf pup acted much the same, though Tyrion expected it did not know better than to follow her master’s lead.

 _Is she always this bold? Or merely putting on a front for her brother?_ After spending the past week in Winterfell, Tyrion judged the first more likely, which surprised him. _I have met few enough bold ladies, and most of them are either old or jaded. This one is neither._

Arya glanced at his plate. “Is that bacon?”

Tyrion glanced down. “It looks like it. I prefer mine well-cooked, as opposed to that wolf pup of yours.”

The girl shrugged. “Nymeria will eat anything that smells good and doesn’t hurt her mouth. She tried eating one of my gloves yesterday.”

“Nymeria?” Tyrion looked down at the pup, whose was sniffing at his boots. “Do you know who that was, my lady?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “The Queen of the Rhoynar, of course. She led her people to Dorne, to escape the Valyrians.”

She turned her head to look at her brother, who was still standing where she had left him. “Why are you still standing there? Come on.”

Bran looked at his sister, then glanced at Tyrion, a nervous look in his eye.

 _That’s more like it._ Tyrion decided to help the lad with the choice. “Do you think Selmy or your father would fear to sit next to someone as small as me?”

As he expected, Bran immediately protested. “I am not afraid! It’s just, well…”

The boy’s sister sighed. “Boys. They always lie more than they should.”

“I happen to be a boy as well,” Tyrion pointed out.

“And I’m sure that _you_ lie more than you should.” Arya’s eyebrows rose as she looked at him.

Tyrion had to laugh at that. “You have me there. I like to think myself honest, but all men lie, and lords more than most. And ladies, too,” he added, raising an eyebrow as he did. The girl just grinned at him, apparently entertained by their banter.

Tyrion found it amusing himself. Matching wits with someone who wasn’t looking to undermine or displace him was a rare treat, and he appreciated the break from the intrigues of the royal court. He had hoped that such things may have grown less common once the party had reached White Harbor, but that had been a fool’s hope. There, and even here in Winterfell, the games continued, even if the players and their motives had changed.

The table squeaked as Bran came to sit next to his sister and placed his arms on its surface. The nervousness was gone, though Tyrion doubted it would take much to return.

 _Best to keep his mind elsewhere, then._ “So, you haven’t named that pup of yours? That was what the squabbling was about?”

The boy nodded. “Everyone’s thought of one already, so they think I have to as well. But it’s not that easy, you know?”

“I can think of at least a score of names that would suit a direwolf,” Tyrion observed.

“Me too. But he’s not _a_ direwolf, he’s _my_ direwolf.” Bran’s expression was fierce, both proud and angry all at once.

“Fair enough. At least you bother to name them. The lions kept at Casterly Rock do not have any names, or at least none but the ones their keepers use.”

“Are all the lions in cages, my lord?” Arya looked at Tyrion curiously. “Are there none left that are free?”

“There are some, though I am not sure how many.” Tyrion paused for a moment. “The last I saw of any lion outside of the Rock was a kill five years ago, in the forests south of Crakehall. The tracker who was with Lord Crakehall and I thought it a young lion’s work, judging from the size of the prints. He thought it surprising to find any sign of one that far south. Prince Viserys insisted we spend the rest of the hunt trying to find it, though we were wasting our time.”

“Jon’s uncle was with you?” Arya asked. “I thought he wasn’t fond of riding.”

“There are other activities he prefers,” Tyrion conceded. “But when one is visiting a lord and said lord calls for a hunt, it is not wise to refuse him. Besides, Viserys is something of a braggart. He likes to say and do things that wins him admirers.”

Bran looked at Tyrion, confusion on his face. “You sound like you do not like him very much.”

 _Me and half the lords in the westerlands._ “That is not so, boy. The prince has his pride, yes, but so does every lord and lordling in the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys is skilled enough with a lance and sword and is cleverer than most give him credit for.”

“What is it like? Having a prince for a brother, I mean.” Arya’s expression was irritated. “Mother keeps telling me that nothing will change, but I know she’s just trying to be kind.”

“Well, I suppose it depends on the prince.” Tyrion shrugged. “Jon and his uncle are very different, no man who knows them both can deny that. The same goes for your sister and mine, which is more important than most know.”

_If one considers the sun and moon different._

Cersei was one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, Tyrion conceded that. But looks were one of the few things his sister had that endeared her to people. She was charming enough on first meetings, and well-versed in both court traditions and intrigue. All that aside, Cersei was arrogant, hot-tempered, and above all else, ambitious.

Her husband shared all those traits, which should have made them perfect for one another, truth be told. And on their good days, Viserys and Cersei could get along very well, and even work together. But they collided as much as they cooperated, leading to some very fiery confrontations in Casterly Rock. Tyrion’s father had been forced to threaten the two more than once in order to stop them.

 _Best not to share all that._ “You should not worry, of course,” Tyrion said shortly. “Your cousin is a good sort, and you know your sister better than me. If she is anything like Prince Jon, then there is nothing to fret over.”

The boy looked relieved at Tyrion’s words. His older sister seemed unconvinced, but simply nodded.

Tyrion had finished with his meal by then. He pushed the tray away from him and stood, shifting his feet so they did not step on any toes or tails as he stood. “Now then, I must go seek out a privy. If you’ll excuse me.” The Stark children nodded, turning to whisper as Tyrion turned and walked away from the table.

Tyrion walked towards the edge of the hall, near the privy entrance, then glanced back at his two companions. Noting their distraction, the dwarf turned slightly and left the hall. _The girl’s clever enough, but I have better things to do than entertain children._

Once he was outside, Tyrion changed direction, heading towards the Great Keep. The king had not been very talkative since they had left the capital, but he hoped that Rhaegar would be more willing to chat after the developments of the last several days.

In King’s Landing, since Tyrion had arrived little more than a year before, he and the king had spoken often. While not on the small council, the dwarf’s position as heir to Casterly Rock had lent him weight and influence that few others possessed. And the attention had been welcome, considering the declining interest Rhaegar had seemed to possess in the advice and positions of Tyrion’s father. He still did not know why that was the case. _Father is too shrewd to let the king’s attention go for granted, the king’s brother and second son are proof of that. Why turn away from Tywin Lannister now?_

The question was even more pressing considering the lack of a Hand. When Tyrion had first learned of the king’s plan to come to visit Winterfell, he had immediately wondered whether Rhaegar planned to offer the position to Eddard Stark. Bad blood aside, the northman had a reputation for stern leadership and fair-mindedness. More importantly, his appointment could reassure the former supporters of Robert Baratheon who feared being pushed out of government following Jon Arryn’s death.

 _But it seems that was not the king’s intent._ The betrothal of Stark’s elder daughter to the king’s son would help tie House Stark and, to a lesser extent, the Houses Arryn and Tully to the crown. That, coupled with the lack of any mention or even whisper of the Hand’s appointment, made Tyrion think that the Lord of Winterfell would not be given the position.

_That leaves few men worthy of the position left, Father chief among them. But if the king intended to name him as Hand, he would have done so already. Why wait?_

Tyrion returned from his thoughts as he came towards the king’s chambers. Arys Oakheart stood without, the young knight nodding as the dwarf approached. But before either of them could announce his arrival, the door was pulled open from the inside. From the chambers came the king’s daughter, were expression thoughtful as she came into the hallway.

She stopped when she saw Tyrion, her demeanor becoming friendly as she smiled at him. “Good morning, my lord. Are you here to see my father?”

“Indeed.” Tyrion gave Rhaenys a once-over before glancing past her to the door. “Unless he’s otherwise engaged.”

“No, he and I were just finishing our talk.” The princess sighed. “I had hoped that court games might end when we came north, but that was a folly. It never ends, not really.”

“Funny, I found myself thinking much the same not long ago.” Tyrion grinned despite himself. “Is His Grace still planning on seeing the Wall before returning to the capital?”

“Yes. I think he is disappointed that you aren’t joining him.”

Tyrion shrugged. “A part of me wants to see the Wall, I admit. I have always wished to see the intrepid men of the Night’s Watch in action. Still, there are many things that I can do in the same time, and they would be far more useful for both my house and for the crown.”

“And if their interests should ever clash?” A sly looked entered Rhaenys’ eyes as she looked at him quizzically. “What would you do then?"

Tyrion chuckled. “There is only one right answer to that, princess, and we both know what it is.”

“Yes, we do.” Rhaenys smiled at Tyrion again. “Well then, if you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

Tyrion bowed as the princess walked past him, Ser Arys passing by to follow her as she did. Tyrion’s smile faded as they left his field of vision.

Of all the dragons Tyrion had come to know, Rhaenys was one of the most impressive. All who knew of the court’s day-to-day happenings were aware of the princess’s charms and her popularity with commons and nobles alike. Upon arriving in the capital, though, Tyrion had soon learned that her influence ran much deeper than most knew. Her contacts among the royal household and the courtiers in the city, as well as her close relations with the Kingsguard and some members of the small council, made Rhaenys one of the more powerful players in the games of the court.

Some thought the princess little more than a Dornish puppet, owing to the presence of the Sand Snakes and her well-known affection for her mother’s kin. _Ignorant fools. The only cause that the girl serves is her own, whatever it might be._

Tyrion knew that Rhaenys was not the only member of the royal family that thought in that way. Rhaegar’s ability to balance between the different Great Houses had been the cornerstone of his reign’s success. Viserys’ boasts of helping to see a new golden era in the Seven Kingdoms were grand, but House Lannister always came behind House Targaryen in his thinking. Tyrion had never managed to glean how the king’s younger son thought of such matters, and he knew the crown prince only by reputation really. Still, it seemed likely that Aegon and Jon thought like their kin: the crown must come first.

 _Whether that is the case, and how effective they are in seeing it done,_ that _will be the key to the success of the Targaryen dynasty. And the success of those who serve under it._

Tyrion turned and approached the door. As he was raising his hand to knock, it opened again, revealing Barristan Selmy. The old knight nodded down at the dwarf. Before either of them could say anything, though, the king emerged from behind the knight. Rhaegar’s expression was like his daughter’s, thoughtful with a gleam in his eye.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed as the king closed the door behind him.

“Tyrion. Please, walk with me.” Without pausing, the king turned and walked after his daughter, leaving Ser Barristan and Tyrion to follow along.

Tyrion glanced up at the king as they walked. “Where are we headed, Your Grace?”

“The rookery.” Rhaegar’s eyes stayed fixed ahead of him as he replied. “There are crown matters that need to be seen to, and I had best send some ravens before I depart on the morrow. I may not have the chance for some time.”

 _That’s a good sign._ Tyrion decided to avoid veiled speech and use candor instead. Judging from the king’s mood, that was more likely to be well received. “Is one of those matters regarding the running of the capital until you return?”

“The capital is in the council’s hands, as you well know, my lord. I believe what you meant was ‘is one of those matters that of the Hand?’, was it not?”

Tyrion nodded. “Your Grace knows me well. Almost as well as you know my lord father. He is anxious to know who shall see to the court while you are inspecting the Wall, and wanted me to ask after-”

“Who I intend to name,” Rhaegar finished for him. He stopped and looked at the dwarf. “I am afraid that your father and many others will be disappointed, my lord. The Hand has already been chosen, and it is only a matter of time until he takes up the office and all the duties it entails.”

Tyrion stared at the king. “Truly? Do you mean to tell me that Connington is being granted the title in full?”

“No, Lord Connington’s service is temporary, as I have always said.” Rhaegar turned and began walking again, bidding Tyrion follow. “The new Hand shows great promise, though he is largely untested, at least compared to the likes of Lord Tywin and others. Still, I expect that with the council’s aid he will prove more than capable of seeing to the realm while I travel to Castle Black.”

“You trust the council with an untested Hand?” Tyrion grimaced at the idea. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but that seems a folly. Any lord who lacks the proper support and abilities will be a lamb amongst wolves at court.”

“That may be true,” Rhaegar allowed, “but as I said, the Hand-to-be shows great promise. He already commands significant support, and most importantly, is one of the few people in the Seven Kingdoms that the council dare not mislead.”

Tyrion’s mind swiftly ran through all the prospective Hands that he had considered since the death of Jon Arryn. _Great promise, significant support, and worthy of fear. Dare not mislead…_

Tyrion’s breath suddenly rushed into his lungs as he realized what the king had decided to do. He looked at Rhaegar with a grudging expression, irritated at both the fact that the king had taken this course and that he had dismissed it so easily.

“It is the prince, then.” Tyrion nodded slowly. “Prince Aegon is the future Hand.”

“Yes. My son shall celebrate his sixteenth nameday in little more than two months, and on that day, when he enters manhood, Connington shall relinquish the office of Hand and return to his position as master of laws. Aegon shall have the entire small council to rely on, as well as the other members of House Targaryen.” The king’s voice held an emotion that Tyrion had never heard before, one he thought impossible for Rhaegar to possess- satisfaction.

 _Not that I can blame him._ Tyrion and many others had assumed that the king would turn to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms for his new Hand. Unless he chose someone of insignificance, whatever choice he made risked alienating at least some of the various factions and players in the court. But by naming the crown prince as Hand, Rhaegar had landed on the one choice that none of them could object to, at least in public. _In private is another matter entirely, especially with those who are impatient for their turn._

“Well,” Tyrion finally said, “then allow me to offer congratulations, Your Grace. I praise your wisdom in giving the heir the chance to gain experience and knowledge in the art of ruling, and the realm the opportunity to learn more about the man who shall one day sit the Iron Throne.”

By now, they had made the climb to Winterfell’s rookery. The caws of ravens were loud from within as they came to its entrance. Rhaegar turned to look at Ser Barristan. “Go find the Stark’s maester. Tell him not to delay- this needs to be seen to.”

The old knight nodded and turned, striding away with a speed that belied his age.

“Lord Tyrion.” The dwarf looked at the king, who’s expression remained thoughtful as their gazes met. “It is good that you came to me when you did. I have need of your talents.”

Tyrion began to speak, but Rhaegar held up a hand. “Please, I have no wish for niceties or dissembling. As you likely know already, my other son is traveling to the Vale of Arryn, to see that the Lady Lysa comes to her senses and returns her son to the crown’s care. I am arranging for a several others to join him there, to aid in ending this folly.”

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “Lysa is not fond of me, Your Grace. My presence may do more harm than good.”

“Oh, I am not asking you to accompany Jon. No, the service I require of you lies at court, on the small council.”

“The council?” Tyrion’s mind shifted to its members. Connington was clearly remaining where he was, as was Arthur Dayne. Tyrion was no maester, and while he had some knowledge of ships and spies, he could not match either Lord Redwyne or the Spider in expertise. That left…

“You wish for me to become master of coin?” Tyrion nodded slowly. “Petyr Baelish is an old friend of Lady Lysa, and she has always been fond of him. He is one of those you are sending to the Eyrie, is he not?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Just so, Tyrion. Now, I am aware that master of coin is not the office your father wishes House Lannister to possess, but it is still of great importance and influence in the court. And now, with the prince Aegon serving as Hand, all the members of the council and their conduct will be even more vital. Do you think you could convince Lord Tywin to accept this amiably?”

Tyrion pretended to think for a moment. “I do not know if it will be amiable, Your Grace, but accept it? Yes, I think he shall.”

“Good. Then I would bid you prepare a letter explaining my decision to him, and to prepare to depart for the capital.”

“I shall tell my attendants at once, Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed and turned, walking down the stairwell that lead to the rookery. On his way down, he passed the old maester, whose face was a little red as he made his way up towards the rookery.

Tyrion’s thoughts stayed with his new appointment, and the implications that it had. He had not lied- his father may accept Tyrion’s position on the small council, but it was not the one he desired, or deserved, if Tyrion was being honest.

The Lord of Casterly Rock’s reputation was mixed at court. None denied Tyrion’s father knew the business of running a kingdom, and his wealth and power ensured no man could ignore him safely. But House Lannister’s delay in coming to Rhaegar’s aid and the brutality King’s Landing had suffered at the western forces hand’s both counted against that. “Tywin Lannister is one of the best men in the Seven Kingdoms for winning a war,” Jon Arryn had once said, “but winning the peace is another matter entirely.”

Tyrion thought that judgement biased, but the man’s point had been valid. His father’s actions had won him no friends among the other Great Houses- indeed, the distrust of both Tywin and Rhaegar had been part of the reason that the latter had enlisted Lord Arryn as Hand in the first place. However, both Tyrion and his father thought it high time that House Lannister be given its proper place at court and in the Seven Kingdoms. And they were prepared to secure it by all the means at their disposal.

_Fifteen years have come and gone, and a new day is upon us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the last one with our current cast in Winterfell. After that, there will be a small jump forward as they split up for their various destinations.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.


End file.
